UC-NRLF 


953 
T455 


MS    037 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

CI 


&rcabtan  Litirarp 

The    Dancers 

BY 
Edith    M.    Thomas 


THE  DANCERS 


THE 
DANCER  S 

— - — -- 

And  Other   Legends   and  Lyrics 


BY 


EDITH    M.  /THOMAS 

LlJ  .. 


BOSTON 

RICHARD   G.   BADGER 

The  Gorham  Press 
1903 


Copyright  1902  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  at  The  Gorbam  Press,  Boston 


To  the  Memory  of  James  Thomas 

Late  of  Leon,   Nicaragua 


ivi504:915 


Contents 

The  Dancers  H 

The  Enchanted  Ring  19 

The  Gray  Pacer  27 

The  Soul  of  the  Violet  31 

Is  it  Spring  Again  in  Ohio  32 

Heart-Break  in  Spring  33 

Midnight  Bread  34 

The  Wolves  of  the  Wind  35 

The  Doves  of  the  Duomo  36 

The  Blossom  Wind    -  37 

Gray   Weather  39 

Mirage  4° 

Nature  and  Man      -  41 

When  Hope  is  Done  42 

The  Life  of  a  Bird  -  43 

A  Light  Sleeper  44 

No  Nests  and  No  Songs  44 

The  Heritage  of  Song  45 

The  Vintage  of  Sorrow  45 

Lex  Talionis  4& 

The  Bees  in  Florida  46 


In  the  Childhood  of  the  May  -  -47 

The  Lover  s  World  -  ^ 

A  Lone  Woman  s  Watch-Nirht  AQ 

r?      /  ^' 

rorbearance  ?o 

The  Lining  of  the  Gloves        -  -         57 

How  Many  a  Tear                -  _          r~> 

Siege  ^ 

Three  Women  in  War  Time  -  -         55 
One  Woman  s  Voice  Against  War      -         56 

The  Healing  Hand  ^§ 

Guarding  the  Pass  ?g 

Lo$t\Qpportunity  fio 

At  a  North  Window  6s 

The  Guest  of  a  Summer  61 

The  Perfect  Hour  6j 

Beyond  Memory  fi* 

The  Evening  Road  ^ 

Silent  Amyclae  fa 

The  Land  of  Lost  Hopes  60 

Timon  to  the  Athenians  j2 

Where  Goest  Thou    -  ~         73 

A  Knight  Errant  of  the  Soul  74 
As  I  Went  Forth                   - 


The  Deep-Sea  Pearl  77 

The  Diamond  77 

Caprice  of  the  Muses  78 

Rank-and-File  79 

The  Flutes  of  the  God  80 

The  Voice  of  the  Laws  83 

A  Vision  of  Brave  Men  84 

The  Compass  86 

Voyagers      -  88 

Palingenesis  90 

The  Mistakes  of  a  Day  93 

Shield  Me,  Dark  Nurse  93 


THE  DANCERS 

A  Legend  Of  Saxony 
I 

St.  Magnus'  hoary  spires  loom  dark  and  still 

On  skies  where,  smoldering,  sink  the  fires  of  day; 

And  now  a  hundred  uncouth  shapes  of  ill 
The  gloam-enchanted  Gothic  eaves  portray. 

Dim  reverie  enfolds  both  plain  and  hill; 
The  stream  alone  in  light  pursues  its  way; 

The  first  stars  tremble  in  the  afterglow, 

And  slender  Dian  bends  a  noiseless  bow. 

II 

St.  Magnus'  ancient  heart  is  all  alight, 

Glad,  warm,  and  glowing,  to  his  inmost  shrine; 

His  windows  cast  a  benediction  bright 
On  frost-bit  turf  and  legendary  pine; 

His  massive  doors  stand  open  to  the  night, 
And  thence  is  heard  the  Nowel  hymn  benign. 

The  priest  his  thank-uplifting  censer  swings, 

And,  hid  aloft,  the  choir  responsive  sings. 

Ill 

He  for  his  flock  with  fervor  intercedes; 

But  oft  unseemly  sounds  of  mirth,  outside, 
Do  jar  on  pious  souls  bent  o'er  their  beads; 

And  youthful  worshippers  their  thoughts  divide 
'Twixt  temporal  delights  and  spirit  needs. 

The  priest  himself  no  longer  will  abide 
The  heedless  troop  that  dance  and  sing  without; 
So  sends  to  bid  them  cease  their  revel-rout. 


IV 

But  Youth  and  Holiday,  conspiring  twain! 

Their  heady  course  they  will  not  intermit, 
Impelled  like  the  free  steed  once  given  rein. 

Counsel  the  morning  zephyrs  as  they  flit 
In  ceaseless  play  across  the  bearded  grain! 

But  Youth,  when  once  of  grave  decorum  quit, 
Stays  not  his  feet,  till,  of  their  own  accord, 
Grown  folly-tired,  they  sink  upon  the  sward. 

V 

'T  was  so.    The  ghostly  father  might  upbraid — 
The  merry  Dancers  heeded  not  at  all; 

But  wilder  yet  the  measures  that  they  swayed. 
Then  on  St.  Magnus'  self  the  priest  did  call; 

In  open  door  he  stood,  and  thus  he  prayed: 
"Oh,  grant  thy  servant  that  it  shall  befall 

To  these,  who  will  not  hear  the  word  of  grace, 

That  they  shall  dance  a  twelvemonth  in  this  place!1 ' 


VI 

The  dawn  is  red  upon  St.  Magnus'  spires, 
His  chimes  ring  in  the  holy  Christmas  morn, 

Whilst,  thin  and  light,  the  smoke  from  village  fires 
Into  the  windless  sky  is  slowly  borne. 

Night-fallen  snow  the  turf,  the  branch,  attires 

In  raiment  white  as  wool  new-washed  and  shorn; 

But  in  the  drifted  churchyard  there's  a  spot 

The  silent  loom  of  Heaven  hath  mantled  not. 


12 


VII 

They're  dancing  yet,  who  danced  on  yester_eve! 

They're  singing  yet,  who  trilled  the  careless  song! 
And  where  they  circle  (if  ye  will  believe!) 

No  snow  hath  fallen  there,  the  whole  night  long! 
Still  hand  in  hand,  the  dance  they  gaily  weave; 

Nor  do  they  heed  the  gathering  anxious  throng, 
The  prayers  of  these,  the  angry  threats  of  those, 
Who  vainly  strive  locked  fingers  to  unclose. 

VIII 

'T  is  "Margarethe — Bertha — Marie,  child! 

Come  hence;  come  hence!  You  break  your  mother's 

heart!" 
But  on  they  dance.   Their  eyes  are  bright  and  wild; 

Their  rosy  lips  with  breathless  pleasure  part. 
'T  is  "Rupert — Franz!  what  witchcraft  has  beguiled? 

Cease,  lest  beneath  your  father's  wrath  you  smart!" 
Nor  ear,  nor  glance  aside,  the  revelers  lend: 
The  day  wears  late;  the  nightly  shades  descend. 


IX 
Heigh-ho!   Once  more  peeps  out  the  blushing  May, 

Once  more  the  primrose  leans  beside  the  brook; 
And  hither,  glad,  the  swallow  wings  her  way, 

To  haunts  that  in  the  autumn  she  forsook. 
St.  Magnus'  hoary  eaves  invite  her  stay; 

But  now  intruders  must  she  chide — for  look! 
They're  dancing  still,  who  danced  on  Christmas  eve! 
They're  singing  still,  to  suit  the  dance  they  weave! 


"Are  ye  not  hungry?  Bread  and  meat  I  bring: 
Eat,  children;  otherwise  ye  perish  soon." 

"Are  ye  not  thirsty?  Water  from  the  spring 

I've  brought,  to  slake  your  thirst  this  blazing  noon." 

Good  souls !  down  on  the  ground  themselves  they  fling, 
And  weep  to  see  the  unregarded  boon; 

The  summer  days  are  long  and  fiercely  bright: 

Sweet  Heaven,  would  that  endless  were  the  night! 

XI 

And  now  't  is  Margarethe!  late  yestreen 

Thy  sister  died,  and  dying,  prayed  for  thee. 

They  soon  will  bring  her  to  the  churchyard  green; 
Yonder  the  heaped-up  clods  thyself  may' st  see." 

"My  Bertha!  thou  a  bride  this  day  hadst  been; 
But  now  for  ay  unwedded  must  thou  be!" 

"My  Marie,  little  one!  come,  rest  thee,  sweet!" 

Meseems,  but  faster  move  those  choric  feet. 


XII 

Whoso  to  Colewiz  Town  comes  pilgrim-wise, 
Or  rider  halting  but  to  taste  the  ale, 

He  must  the  Dancers  see  with  his  own  eyes; 
Then  ready  credence  lends  he  to  the  tale 

How  luckless  stranger,  under  twilight  skies, 
Did  fall  in  swoon  before  St.  Magnus'  pale, 

Believing  that  the  Willis,  circling  there, 

Advanced  to  close  him  in  their  eddying  snare. 


XIII 
On  frost-bit  turf  and  legendary  pine 

Gleams  the  late  moon,  and  winds  are  weird  and  shrill. 
The  fireside  gossips  know,  by  many  a  sign, 

The  winter  early  comes.      So,  if  ye  will, 
Have  store  of  apples  and  of  spiced  sweet  wine, 

For  evening  cheer,  to  melt  the  brumal  chill. 
"Ye  shiver?" — "'Tis  that  I  cannot  forget 
The  Dancers.      They,  alas,  are  dancing  yet!" 

XIV 

Then  answer  makes  the  goodman  to  his  wife: 
"But  well  ye  know  nor  frost  nor  fire  they  feel. 

They  (if  they  living  be)  lead  not  the  life 
We  daily  lead,  of  mingled  woe  and  weal. 

They  would  not  shrink,  though  with  the  keenest  knife 
One  minded  so  a  deadly  stroke  should  deal." 

Spake  then  a  stranger  guest:  "I  have  heard  tell 

How  Herebertus  can  reverse  the  spell; 

XV 
"He,  the  great  bishop  dwelling  at  Cologne, 

Whom  I  myself  once  saw  when  I  was  young — 
The  mighty  Herebertus,  he  alone 

Dissolves  the  charm  a  wizard  wand  has  flung, 
Revokes  the  curse  in  sudden  anger  thrown." 

Thus  talk  good  folk  until,  with  droning  tongue, 
St.  Magrfus'  midnight  bell  bids  all  around 
Sleep  well — save  those  who  tread  enchanted  ground. 


XVI 

It  is  the  winter,  and  the  little  town 

Once  more  is  buried  to  its  eyes  in  snow; 

And  still  a  few  last,  loitering  flakes  come  down, 
Albeit,  in  the  western  heavens  low, 

A  rosy  smile  redeems  the  zenith  frown. 

And  touched  with  rose  the  dreaming  faces  show 

Of  them  who,  never  worn,  retire,  advance, 

Singing  the  song  that  times  their  mazy  dance. 

XVII 
Yet  is  St.  Magnus*  ancient  heart  alight, 

Glad,  warm,  and  glowing,  to  his  inmost  shrine. 
For,  if  God  wills  it  so,  this  Holy  Night 

There  shall  be  wrought  a  miracle  divine, 
As  those  of  eld  were  wrought,  in  all  men's  sight. 

Therefore,  devoutly  let  each  one  incline; 
And  if  there  lurk  a  secret  thought  of  ill, 
That  thought  dislodge,  and  entertain  good  will. 

XVIII 
Down  the  long  aisle  he  comes,  that  saintly  man 

From  far  Cologne,  our  comfort  to  restore. 
His  face,  attentive,  all  the  people  scan — 

That  blessing  smile,  the  prophet-looks  of  yore. 
Close  follows  him  the  priest  who  laid  the  ban 

(Since  then  advanced  in  years  a  double  score), 
With  piteous  livid  cheek  and  bowed  frame — 
God  wot  his  sin  hath  brought  its  lustral  flame! 


16 


XIX 

Not  here  availeth  candle,  book,  and  bell, 
Or  mystic  waving,  or  the  muttered  verse 

Which  studious  brethren  of  the  cloister-cell 
In  rubric  down  the  labored  page  disperse. 

For  this  was  not  some  baleful  sorcerer's  spell; 
But  piety  itself  pronounced  the  curse. 

How,  then,  can  aught  but  piety  supreme 

The  hapless  Dancers  from  their  fate  redeem? 

XX 

Now  hath  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door; 

Now,  silently,  in  hushed,  expectant  bands, 
Into  the  torch-lit  dusk  the  people  pour; 

And  round  good  Herebertus,  where  he  stands, 
They  throng,  with  wonder  ever  growing  more. 

He  nothing  holds  in  his  grave,  reverend  hands 
Save  the  bent  staff  that  shepherds  used,  of  old, 
To  bring  the  strayed  or  weakling  to  the  fold. 

XXI 

That  staff  from  charm  and  malison  sets  free. 

That  staff  no  greater  miracle  hath  done, 
In  all  the  ages  past,  than  now  ye  see. 

Behold  the  Dancers! — how  he  smites  each  one, 
And,  smiting,  gently  saith,  " Absolved  be 

From  henceforth,  thou  my  daughter,  thou  my  son!" 
The  song  dies  out;  and  slack  the  dizzy  reel, 
As  when,  unbanded,  turns  the  spinning-wheel. 


XXII 
And  now,  in  many  a  quavering,  smothered  call, 

'Tis  "Margarethe — Bertha — Marie,  love!" 
And  "Franz,  my  boy!"   The  dreamer  stands  in  thrall. 

Down  from  the  disenchanted  boughs  above, 
Dislodged,  the  feathery  snow-wreaths  lightly  fall, 

Like  shedded  plumes.      At  the  cold  touch  thereof, 
The  dreamer  starts  into  this  waking  world, 
And  tears,  unware,  lie  on  the  cheek  impearled. 

XXIII 
Their  year-long  dance  at  last  is  done.      But  they, 

Young  creatures  all,  they  can  remember  naught 
Save  that  in  Fairyland  they  were  a  day; 

A  piper  piped,  and  his  sweet  tunes  they  caught. 
To  this,  "It  bodes  no  good,"  the  gossips  say. 

But  at  his  word,  who  such  release  hath  wrought, 
All  hearts  uplift,  and  put  away  all  fears; 
And  the  sad  priest  throws  off  his  load  of  years. 

XXIV 
Now  might  be  seen  the  Yule  fire  blazing  bright — 

Unfailing  oasis  in  winter's  waste; 
And  now,  the  joyous  revel  at  its  height, 

Beneath  the  Druid  branch  the  guests  have  paced. 
Ere  one  can  think,  St.  Magnus  sounds  good  night. 

Good  night !  Once  more  the  spiced  sweet  wine  they  taste. 
Then  gleams  awhile  the  lantern's  wandering  spark; 
It  sinks,  a  homeward  star — and  all  is  dark. 


18 


THE  ENCHANTED  RING 

A  Tale  of  Halloween 

I 

You  ask  me  for  a  tale  of  Halloween? 
'Tis  well.      I  lately  read  a  treasure  tome 
Within  whose  legend-haunted  lone  demesne 
The  free,  wild  Fancy  finds  herself  at  home. 
Now,  while  the  night  wind  wings  the  starlit  dome, 
And  while  the  dead  leaves  eerie  converse  hold, 
Through  the  rich  Conjurer's  Kingdom  with  me  roam; 
And,  wandering  there,  the  story  shall  be  told 
Of  what  befell  in  Leinster  in  the  days  of  old. 

II 

In  Leinster  in  the  days  of  old,  I  wis, 
There  was  no  maiden  of  the  countryside 
But  on  All  Hallows  (such  a  night  as  this!) 
In  Love's  dim  chancery  her  fortune  tried. 
The  bursting  nut  upon  the  hearth  she  plied; 
Or,  while  a  lighted  candle  she  would  bear, 
Gazed  in  her  glass  with  eyes  intent  and  wide; 
Or,  with  weird  mutterings,  like  a  witch's  prayer, 
She  sowed  three  rows  of  nothing  on  the  empty  air ! 


Ill 

All  rites  had  little  Barbara  performed, 

Yet  nothing  did  she  see,  and  nothing  hear; 

Her  busy  thoughts  soon  into  dreamland  swarmed. 

The  rosy  apple  lay,  untasted,  near 

For  him  who,  ere  another  rounded  year, 

Should  taste  Love's  feast  with  her.      And  now  the  wind 

(As  on  this  very  night)  with  sighings  drear, 

Spake  close  beneath  her  latticed  window-blind 

Such  dreamwise  things  as  it  hath  spoke  time  out  of  mind. 

IV 

Why  moans  our  little  sister?  "Rest  thee,  rest! 
Fear  naught."    Soon  careful  arms  have  clasp'd  her  round, 
And  a  soft  cheek  against  her  own  is  pressed. 
For  thus,  since  childhood,  Barbara  hath  found 
In  mother-love  with  sister's  love  upbound, 
Swift  respite  from  the  terrors  of  the  night. 
But  now,  what  sleep  so  restless,  yet  so  sound, 
That  not  for  touch  or  tone  will  take  its  flight, 
Or  aught  at  all  except  the  broadcast  morning  light! 

V 

"My  precious  one,  such  troubled  dreams  were  thine; 

Yet,  though  I  strove,  I  could  not  waken  thee." 

"Dear  mother-sister — dearest  sister  mine — 

Methought  an  unknown  guide  did  beckon  me 

Far,  far  from  here.    My  will  I  could  not  free; 

I  needs  must  follow  through  weald  and  waste. 

Outworn  I  reached  a  manor  fair  to  see; 

Outworn,  alone,  through  a  long  hall  I  paced, 

That  was  with  many  a  speaking,  stately  portrait  graced. 


VI 

"Then,  stilly  as  a  spirit  loosed  from  earth, 

I  climbed  a  stair,  and  to  a  chamber  came, 

Rich  hung  with  broidered  cloths.      Upon  the  hearth 

Dull  embers  held  a  little  fitful  flame. 

A  sudden  trembling  ran  through  all  my  frame, 

When,  from  amidst  those  silken  hangings  rare, 

A  voice  pronounced:  'Reveal  thy  face  and  name, 

I  conjure  thee!     At  least,  some  token  spare 

That  I  may  trace  thee  when  thou  goest  I  know  not  where!' 

VII 

"It  was  a  grievous  and  a  sinful  thing — 
But  over  me  was  sovereign,  stern  command 
I  must  obey.      Thy  gift,  the  birthday  ring, 
With  my  own  name  engraved  within  the  band — 
The  ring,  alas!  I  drew  it  from  my  hand, 
And  laid  it  on  the  marble  mantel  high. 
Then  died  the  flame  from  out  the  falling  brand, 
Then  were  the  four  walls  darkling  earth  and  sky; 
And,  once  again,  till  dawn  a  wanderer  was  I. 

VIII 

"But,  Agatha,  thou  art  not  vexed  at  me? 
Thou  dost  not  mourn  the  ring?      'Twas  mine  last  eve, 
This  morning  it  is  gone,  as  thou  canst  see!" 
"Nay,  darling,  thou  no  reason  hast  to  grieve: 
I  may  nott  tell  thee  why,  but  I  believe 
That  ere  another  winged  year  is  flown 
Some  brightest  threads  for  thee  will  Fortune  weave." 
So  spake  her  sister,  sage  of  look  and  tone, 
And  held  the  little,  fevered  hand  within  her  own. 


21 


IX 

The  Winter  long  is  over  in  the  land, 
And  mellow  is  the  furrowed  soil,  and  quick 
With  hopeful  promise  to  the  toiler's  hand. 
He,  too,  that  toils  not,  leaning  on  his  stick, 
Is  cheered  to  see  the  bean-flowers  set  so  thick, 
And  thick  the  blossoms  on  the  orchard  bough. 
How  sweet  the  air!      Hath  any  soul  been  sick? 
Oh,  let  that  soul  drink  health  from  beauty  now; 
Stand  forth  beneath  the  sky;  unknit  the  careworn  brow! 

X 

"Say,  children,  if  ye  guess,  what  aileth  him — 

The  stranger  who  oft  leans  beyond  the  hedge 

To  see  our  budding  roses?     Yet  so  dim 

His  eye,  he  knows  them  not  from  ragged  sedge! 

The  black  ox's  hoof  hath  trod  on  him,   I  pledge 

My  hopes  beyond  the  grave,  he  seeketh  aye 

For  that  which  flees  him  to  the  world's  far  edge! 

Come,  children,  tell  me  what  the  gossips  say: 

Your  grandsire  nothing  hears — the  old  at  home  must  stay!" 

XI 

Good  Agatha  replies  with  playful  look: 
"Let  Barbara  speak.      And  if  she  be  the  rose 
(To  us  the  sweetest  flower  in  any  nook — 
Or  tame  or  wild — that  in  our  Leinster  grows) 
Hath  drawn  the  stranger  to  our  garden-close, 
With  what  true  eye  hath  he  the  best  discerned." 
(A  blush-rose,  on  the  moment,  springs  and  blows!) 
"Ay,  sister,  grandsire,  all  that  I  have  learned, 
I  freely  tell  you;  since  deceit  I  always  spurned. 

22 


XII 

"But  twice  have  I  had  speech  with  him — no  more, 

First  time  he  asked  a  rose,  and  spake  me  fair, 

I  gave  it  him,  so  sad  a  look  he  wore; 

And  on  he  passed,  as  one  who  doth  not  care. 

Again,  as  I  was  searching  everywhere 

My  bracelet  that  had  fallen  to  the  ground, 

He  leaped  the  hedge-row  ere  I  was  aware; 

And  he  it  was  that,  searching,  quickly  found 

My  bracelet.      Surely,  I  to  courtesy  was  bound." 

XIII 

"Ay,  surely,  child.      Your  grandsire  taught  you  that, 
What  said  you  then?"      "I  bade  him  stay  and  rest; 
And  down  upon  the  old  oak  bench  we  sat. 
He  spake  of  losses — how  another's  quest 
'Twas  ever  his  to  aid,  for  he  was  blest 
With  wizard  sight,  save  for  the  thing  he  sought — 
A  thing  not  lost,  since  never  yet  possessed; 
He  had  but  dreamed  of  it!      I  answered  naught; 
But  much,  in  truth,    since  then  of  what  he    said   have 
thought." 

XIV 

By  this  time  closed  are  the  ears  of  age, 
And  lid-fast  are  the  eyes.      And  now,  alone, 
Spake  carelessly  good  Agatha  the  sage: 
"Great  prudence,  little  Barbe,  thou  hast  shown; 
But  I  have  heard  the  stranger  well  is  known, 
That  gentle  is  his  birth,  and  the  estate 
Is  broad  and  fair,  which  singly  he  doth  own. 
'Tis  said  his  health  hath  suffered  much  of  late; 
Wholesome  this  air;  so  he  prolongs  his  visit's  date." 


XV 

Then  subtly  did  fond  Agatha  contrive: 

"Thou  doest  but  a  charitable   deed, 

If  from  his  soul  this  withering  gloom  thou  drive. 

Lightly  along  the  self-same  channel  lead 

Thy  talk.      Say  that  thou  gav'st  his  words  good  heed; 

Since  back  to  thee  thy  bracelet  he  could  bring, 

Thou  would' st,  once  more,  consult  his  wizard  rede, 

For  thou  hast  lost  a  yet  more  precious  thing — 

Thy  sister's  gift  to  thee — the  name,  too,  on  the  ring!" 

XVI 

"That  dare  I  not — !"  broke  in  the  little  maid; 
"For  well  thou  knowest  how  the  ring  was  lost, 
And  all  the  tricks  at  Halloween  I  played. 
Alas,  those  charms  were  wrought  at  heavy  cost, 
To  be,  as  I  have  been,  a  homeless  ghost — 
A  shadow  of  myself — of  self  bereft!" 
"Then,  child,  tell  only  what  importeth  most — 
A  ring  of  thine  was  somewhere  lost,  or  left; 
And  thou,  once  more,  art  fain  to  seek  his  counsel  deft." 

XVII 

The  Rose  sends  challenge  to  the  flower- world  all: 

What  bloom  like  mine — at  once  both  proud  and  sweet? 

Unstored  do  the  Rose's  burning  accents  fall 

Upon  the  twain  within  the  garden-seat. 

Yet,  what  can  make  the  Rose's  color  fleet 

From  a  young  maiden's  cheek — what  sudden  stress? 

What  words  are  these  a  young  man  may  repeat, 

While  light  springs  up  in  eyes  long  lustreless? 

But  come,  let  us  o'erhear — 'twere  idle,  still  to  guess? 

24 


XVIII 

It  thus  had  chanced:  when  came  the  moment  fit, 

Full  simply  little  Barbara  broached  the  theme 

Directed  by  her  sister's  subtler  wit: 

Since  he  had  found  her  bracelet,  it  would  seem 

A  yet  more  precious  loss  he  might  redeem: 

A  ring  of  hers  had  vanished — left  no  trace. 

So  great  a  wizard  might  some  potent  scheme 

Devise,  to  bring  it  from  its  hiding-place." 

She  lightly  spake.      Intent,  her  comrade  scanned  her  face. 

XIX 

' 'Speak  thou  the  truth,  no  word  from  me  withhold; 
Lift  up  thine  eyes,  and  they  the  truth  shall  speak, 
For  it  must  be  that  slender  ring  of  gold 
Bounds  the  whole  world  of  happiness  I  seek. 
Tell  me  when  thou  this  ring  didst  lose,  and  eke 
All  circumstance  that  did  the  time  attend." 
'Twas  then  the  Rose's  color  fled  her  cheek; 
But  since  her  tongue  to  guile  she  could  not  lend, 
She  told  straightforwardly  her  story  to  the  end. 

XX 

"As  thou  hast  spoken  truth,  and  naught  beside" 

He  said,  "I'll  speak  the  living  truth  to  thee. 

That  night  some  charms  of  Halloween  I  tried, 

Dared  thus  to  do  by  a  blithe  company 

In  mine  old  hall,  far  in  the  West  Countree. 

The  charms  performed,  I  thought  of  them  no  more; 

Yet  deemed  it  strange  that  sleep  came  not  to  me; 

And  as  the  rising  wind  shook  blind  and  door, 

I  watched  with  half-shut  eyes  the  firelight  on  the  floor. 


XXI 

"Then  glidingly,  and  noiseless  as  a  dream, 
A  figure  stoled  in  white,  with  floating  hair, 
Touched  faintly  by  the  embers'  fitful  gleam, 
Approached  the  fireplace  and  stood  wavering  there — 
Stood  piteously,  with  tender  feet  all  bare, 
And  tender  palms  reached  out  above  the  coals 
(As  they  had  borne  too  long  the  frosty  air). 
Then,  I  remembered  me  the  time — All  Souls, 
When  visions  vanish  as  the  hour  of  midnight  tolls ! 

XXII 

" Already  was  the  clock  upon  the  stroke, 
Already  had  the  vision  turned  to  go 
When,  in  a  voice  I  scarcely  knew,  I  spoke, 
Desiring  that  the  presence  should  bestow 
Some  sign,  or  constant  pledge  of  truth,  to  show 
When  daylight  should  to  disbelief  incline. 
The  vision  faded.      On  the  mantel,  lo! 
This  ring  I  found.      And  surely,  it  is  thine, 
And  surely,  maiden,  both  the  ring  and  thou  art  mine!" 

XXIII 

Needs  not  to  say  what  afterwards  befell — 

How  smiled  the  mother-sister  sage  and  dear, 

When  came  the  fine  confession,  guessed  full  well ; 

Or  how,  before  the  rounding  of  the  year, 

She  saw — through  many  a  rainbow-lighted  tear — 

Her  darling  pace  the  aisle,  a  happy  bride! 

Nay ! — rather  must  I  counsel  all  who  hear 

Leave  juggling  wiles  of  Hallo-ween  untried, 

Lest  no  such  powers  benign  your  doubtful  venture  guide! 

26 


THE  GRAY  PACER 

Two  neighbor  cliffs  two  Rhenish  castles  crown; 

Alike  they  look  upon  the  rushing  stream; 
Alike  they  stand  to  take  the  tempest's  frown; 

Alike,  in  sunset's  glamour  wrapt,  they  dream. 

Beneath  them,  early  shut  from  western  beam, 
Unfathomed  by  the  eagle,  lies  a  dell: 

St.  Clement's  spires  amidst  its  quiet  gleam; 
To  Rheinstein  and  to  Reichenstein,  his  bell 
Hath  rung  for  centuries  wedding  peal  and  funeral  knell. 

Yet  nearer,  as  the  bird  or  arrow  flies, 

Are  Rheinstein' s  towers  to  those  of  Reichenstein, 
Than  cither's  bastions  to  the  church  that  lies 

Deep  buried  in  the  many-folding  chine. 

So  near  those  windowed  towers,  by  air-drawn  line, 
That  when  all  winds  be  dumb  and  skies  are  gold, 

A  mutual  ear  may  mutual  speech  divine. 
Such  converse  Gerda  might  with  Kuno  hold, 
But  Fate  had  lessoned  them  to  be  more  wise  than  bold! 

To  Gerda  the  Gray  Pacer  came  a  gift — 

A  birthday  gift  from  Reichenstein  he  came, 
A  letter  round  his  neck:  As  true  as  swift, 

Hill f ail  thee  not — Fidele  is  his  name. 

Thus  Kuno  wrote,  fanning  more  bright  the  flame 
Of  long-increasing  fancies — how  the  steed, 

Which^  his  own  hand  to  one  high  hest  did  tame, 
Should  bear  her,  serve  her,  though  himself,  indeed, 
Might  not  so  much  as  touch  her  hand,  for  utmost  need ! 

And,  since  that  birthday  morn,  his  dear  last  hope 
Was  stolen  hence;  for  at  the  trial-tilt, 

27 


He  one  had  met,  with  whom  he  might  not  cope — 
Dark  Kurt,  whose  hand  was  ever  on  the  hilt, 
Prompt  still  to  deeds  of  violence  and  guilt, 

To  him  the  prize,  old  Sifrid's  daughter,  passed. 
Sweet  Gerda !   Many  tears  her  blue  eyes  spilt, 

Her  heart  was  holden,  and  its  doors  were  fast; 

Yet  what  avails?  Her  father's  will  in  iron  was  cast. 

The  bridal  day  was  set — too  soon  arrived! 

The  Castle  maidens  robed  her  as  they  would — 
In  veil  and  vestment  by  deft  hands  contrived — 

In  gems  and  laces  of  the  antique  mood. 

In  splendor  tired — yet  in  their  midst  she  stood 
Like  some  fair  chosen  creature  without  stain, 

That,  thus  bedecked,  in  early  times  and  rude, 
Was  led  unto  the  altar  to  be  slain, 
Where  the  lean  priest  stood  waiting  pitiless  and  fain. 

And  flesh  had  failed  her  in  that  deathly  hour, 

But  that,  to  Mother  Mary  she  had  knelt, 
At  dawn  of  day,  to  ask  her  saving  power; 

And,  rising  up,  a  nameless  cheer  had  felt, 

That  even  yet  within  her  bosom  dwelt. 
Joyous  she  seemed,  whom  sorrow  late  consumed; 

But,  here  and  there,  an  eye  did  sudden  melt, 
Of  such  as  judged  to  madness  she  was  doomed, 
Unless,  ere  long,  a  broken  heart  should  be  entombed! 

One  dartling  glance  toward  the  neighboring  cliff! 
For  well  her  heart  divined  who  watched  her  there; 

Then  spake  she  gayly,  "'Twere  great  favor  if 
Mine  own  good  gray  my  maiden  self  might  bear 
Once  more  to  Clement's  shrine. ' '  They  grant  her  prayer. 

28 


Into  the  sell  she  springs;  and  all  descend 

By  winding,  stony  way  that  asks  for  care. 
The  wedding  chimes  their  downward  march  attend; 
And  Clement's  flower-wreathed  altar  waits  them  at  the  end, 

The  watcher  lone,  on  lonely  Reichenstein, 

By  tantalizing  glimpses,  often  barred 
By  jutting  crag  or  by  thick-bodied  pine, 

Beheld  the  wedding  guests  ride  chapelward, 

And,  in  their  van — as  one  in  Heaven  starred, 
Past  mortal  speech,  his  love  and  sorrow  moved— 

Life  lay  before  him  a  fair  picture  marred; 
Nor  knew  he  yet,  if  vengeance  most  behoved; 
Or  choice  of  holy  wars,  or  convent  shades  removed. 

But  as  keen  thought  its  many  edges  turned, 

Wounding  alike  (yet  wounds  no  more  he  fears!) 

His  outward  eye  a  wondrous  sight  discerned; 
For,  as  the  bridal  train  the  chapel  nears, 
And  all  would  now  alight,  the  gray  horse  rears, 

Strikes  with  sharp  hooves  whoe'er  would  stay  his  course. 
Streamward  he  makes,  the  while  his  rider  hears 

The  welcome  call  of  waters,  deep  and  hoarse, 

Wooing  to  death  no  hand  away  from  her  can  force! 

No  hand  save  Heaven's  that  death  can  now  forestall, 
But,  reared  to  plunge,  the  pacer  wheels  around 

(As  though  from  far  aloft,  a  master  call 

He  he^eds — a  voice  whereof  he  knows  the  sound ) , 
And  lo !  with  flying  feet,  with  bound  on  bound, 

By  road  no  charger's  hoof  before  hath  traced, 
He  takes  the  steep,  as  it  were  level  ground! 


29 


To  Reichenstein  he  mounts!  "No  time  to  waste!" 
('Tis  Kuno's  voice)    "Let  down  the  drawbridge  in  all 
haste." 

Soon,  in  the  Castle's  court,  Fidele  stands, 

With  quivering,  foam  sprent-flank,  with  drooping  head. 
Unclasped  from  his  neck  are  Gerda's  hands, 

And  from  his  back  his  burden  dear  is  shed. 

Can  ye  not  guess  what  tenderest  words  are  said 
(What  love-names,  also,  for  the  gallant  gray)? 

But  it  behooves  me  to  recount,  instead, 
How  Kuno  orders  all  in  armed  array, 
To  meet  whatever  foes  the  castle's  walls  essay. 

But  even  as  the  hurried  order  goes, 

A  gathering  rumor  runs  about  the  place, 
And  soon  the  barred  and  massive  doors  unclose, 

And  henchmen  four,  with  slow,  regardful  pace, 

Bear  hither  Sifrid.    He,  in  the  mad  chase, 
Unseated  from  his  horse,  'mid  rocks  was  thrown. 

But  he,  while  suffering  sharpens  all  his  face, 
Is  fain  to  speak:  "My  children,  I  atone: 
Ye  shall  each  other's  be;  and  both  be  as  mine  own!" 

Thus  spake  sweet  Gerda's  father  in  remorse 

Nor  knew  his  vow  was  loosed  the  while  he  spake. 
Though  even  then,  the  Kurt — an  unwept  corse — 

Down  the  swift  Rhine  his  drowned  way  did  take. 

But,  while  the  new-found  joy  cures  past  heartache, 
The  gray  approaches,  and  with  neck  a-droop 

(As  one  but  glad  or  sorry  for  their  sake), 
Pushes  his  loving  way  into  the  group, 
While  a  brave  cheer  runs  round  the  Castle's  yeoman  troop ! 

30 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  VIOLET 

Whenever,  betimes,  the  warm  winds  blow 
And  drive  underground  the  lingering  snow; 
Whenever,    amid  such  breathing  space, 
The  brown  earth  raises  a  wistful  face — 
Whenever  about  the  fields  I  go, 
The  soul  of  the  violet  haunts  me  so! 

I  look — there  is  never  a  leaf  to  be  seen; 
In  the  pleached  grass  is  no  thread  of  green; 
But  I  walk  as  one  who  would  chide  his  feet 
Lest  they  trample  the  hope  of  something  sweet ! 
Here  can  no  flower  be  blooming,  I  know- 
Yet  the  soul  of  the  violet  haunts  me  so ! 

Again  and  again  that  thrilling  breath, 
Fresh  as  the  life  that  is  snatched  out  of  death, 
Keen  as  the  blow  that  Love  might  deal 
Lest  a  spirit  in  trance  should  outward  steal — 
So  thrilling  that  breath,  so  vital  that  blow— 
The  soul  of  the  violet  haunts  me  so! 

Is  it  the  blossom  that  slumbers  as  yet 
Under  the  leaf-mould  dank  and  wet, 
And  visits  in  dreams  the  wondering  air 
(Whereof  the  passing  sweetness  I  share)? 
Or  is  it  the  flower  shed  long  ago? 
The  soul  of  the  violet  haunts  me  so ! 


31 


IS  IT  SPRING  AGAIN  IN  OHIO 

Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio? 

Is  the  sleep  of  the  Winter  over? 
Far  in  the  heavens,  the  bluebird, 

Low  in  the  marshland,  the  plover, 
Anear,  in  the  orchard,  the  redbreast, — 

Wherever  one  looks,  the  hover 
Of  wings — wherever  one  listens, 

The  note  of  the  homing  rover ! 
Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio? 

Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio, 

And  the  sleep  of  the  Winter  over? 
Blooms  in  the  woods  the  wild  service? 

Where  Zephyr  bendeth  above  her, 
Gleams  the  faint  dawn  of  the  wind-flower? 

Breaks  from  the  turfy  cover 
The  tender  star  of  the  thistle, — 

The  dew-cradling  leaf  of  the  clover? 
Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio? 

Is  it  spring  again  in  Ohio, 

And  the  sleep  of  the  Winter  over? 
Are  these  the  rare  days — O  my  comrade — 

Blithest  for  homing  rover? 
Once  would  we  forth — and  follow 

Far  as  the  cry  of  the  plover — 
By  stream,  and  by  greening  pasture, 

By  fallow,  and  breezy  cover! 
Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio? 


Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio — 

Is  the  sleep  of  the  Winter  over? 
Say  to  each  wakening  beauty, 

I  am,  as  ever,  its  lover, 
Hourly,  from  far  saluting: 

I,  too,  were  a  homing  rover, 
If  I,  from  the  sleep  of  the  Winter, 

All  that  I  loved  might  recover! 
Is  it  Spring  again  in  Ohio? 


HEART-BREAK    IN    SPRING 

When  the  earliest  violets  ope 
On  the  sunniest  southward  slope, 
When  the  cress  and  windflower  slim 
Palely  light  the  woodpath  dim, 
When  the  air  is  sweet  and  keen 
Ere  the  full-blown  flower  is  seen, 
When  that  blithe  forerunning  air 
Breathes  more  hope  than  thou  canst  bear, 
Thou,  O  buried,  broken  heart, 
Into  quivering  life  shall  start! 
Thou  shalt  ask  the  flower-loved  breeze, 
" Wherefore  waken  these — and  these, — 
Soulless  gazers  on  the  light, 
Wherefore  lead  these  up  from  night, 
And  not  send  a  thrilling  call 
Waking  eyes  more  sweet  than  all." 


33 


MIDNIGHT  BREAD 

Above  the  canon  of  the  street 

The  gleaming  files  of  Heavens  climb: 

One  almost  hears  his  own  heart  beat — 
So  silent  and  so  dead  the  time! 

Far,  far  away  the  tide  has  drawn, 

That,  sounding,  filled  this  canon's  cleft; 

The  city's  myriad  soul  is  gone, 
And  but  its  empty  frame  is  left. 

But  what  is  yonder  moving  line — 
Scarce  moving  line,  in  human  guise, 

Near  by  where  Grace  Church  lifts  her  sign 
That  fostering  care  is  in  the  skies? 

One — two — the  bell-tower  now  has  dealt, 
'Tis  late,  but  later  yet  shall  be 

Ere  this  slow    moving  line  shall  melt 
Which  nightly  Heaven's  watchers  see. 

These  are  my  brothers  scorned  of  Fate — 
My  brothers  of  the  Empty  Hand: 

Their  turn  in  silence  they  await, 

Patient,  half-sleeping,  as  they  stand. 

Into  the  dark,  at  length,  they  fade, 

Bearing  their  dole  of  Midnight  Bread; 

And  when  the  hunger-pang  is  stayed 

God  knows  where  each  shall  lay  his  head! 


34 


THE  WOLVES  OF  THE  WIND 

A  Burden  of  the  Season 

Bare  are  my  walls,  and  low  is  my  roof, 
Yet,  heaven  be  praised !  they  are  winter-proof ! 
Hark,  how  the  wolves  of  the  wind  rush  by! 
(Was  the  sound  I  heard  a  human  cry?) 

The  fire  on  my  hearth  is  blazing  bright 
Within  is  cheer,  without  is  the  Night 
Blanching  with  fear  from  earth  to  sky — 
Hark,  how  the  wolves  of  the  wind  rush  by ! 

They  are  swift,  they  are  fell,  and  they  never  tire, 
But  they  shun  the  light  of  my  blazing  fire, 
So  blest  is  my  portion,  so  safe  am  I. 
(Was  the  sound  I  heard  a  human  cry?) 

They  have  broken  the  leash  that  held  them  back, 
And  the  whole  world  dreads  the  fierce,  wild  pack! 
To  shelter,  to  shelter,  let  all  things  fly — 
Hark,  how  the  wolves  of  the  wind  rush  by! 

Matters  not  where,  the  heath,  or  the  town, 
Whatever  they  meet  they're  trampling  down: 
And  the  vains  of  the  victim  they're  draining  dry! 
(Was  the  sound  I  heard  a  human  cry?) 

The  sound,  too  plain  it  rises  again, 

The  myriad  wailing  of  outcast  men: 

In  the  path  of  the  pack  they  stricken  lie — 

Hark,  ho\v  the  wolves  of  the  wind  rush  by! 


35 


Who  is  it  knocks  at  the  door  of  my  heart? 
Open  I  must,  though  in  terror  I  start, 
At  the  blue-cold  lip  and  the  hollow  eye. 
(The  sound  I  heard  was  a  human  cry!) 

Whoever  hath  shelter,  whoever  hath  store, 
Slide  the  bolt  of  the  grudging  door; 
Be  the  poor  with  us,  lest  they  should  die — 
Hark,  how  the  wolves  of  the  wind  rush  by ! 


THE    DOVES    OF   THE  DUOMO 

Said  the  brooding  dove  to  her  mate, 
"Whenever  the  great  bell  tolls 

(And  it  tolls  both  early  and  late) 
The  good  folk  pray  for  their  souls." 

"What  matters  to  thee  and  to  me? 

We  have  no  souls,  men  say, 
(And  wiser  are  men  than  wre;) 

So,  therefore,  we  need  not  to  pray." 

"Then,"  said  the  brooding  dove, 

"Let  us  pray — let  us  pray  for  their  souls - 

For  the  city  we  so  much  love — 
Whenever  the  great  bell  tolls!" 


THE  BLOSSOM  WIND 

Like  a  fair  pavilion  dropped  from  heaven, 

Is  the  wonder  of  the  orchard  trees. 

Like  the  music  heard  in  dreams  of  heaven, 
Is  the  honey-buried  murmur  of  the  bees. 

Rosy  light  o'erlaps  the  shadow, 

Blissful  mornings  come  and  go, 

And  the  evenings  die  of  beauty, 
Till  the  Blossom  Wind  begins  to  blow. 

Somewhere,  all  unseen,  the  orchard  Spirit 

Midst  the  billowy  tree-tops  dwells  apart; 

But  she  hears  the  oriole's  silvery  fluting, 
And  the  bee  within  the  blossom's  honeyed  heart. 

And  the  yeoman  trees,  to  shield  her, 

Trail  their  snowy  branches  low, 

As  she  leans,  to  look  and  listen, 
When  the  Blossom  Wind  begins  to  blow. 

At  the  first,  'tis  but  the  lightest  sighing, 

Lifting  not  the  downball  from  the  grass; 

But  the  Spirit  of  the  place  has  heard  it, 
And  she  knows  the  hour  of  Beauty  soon  must  pass ! 

Down  a  single  petal  falters, 

Like  the  earliest  flake  of  snow — 

On  the  bough  its  comrades  tremble, 
As  the  Blossom  Wind  begins  to  blow! 


37 


Borne  along  the  hollow  fragrant  tempest, 

Drifts  the  orchard  Spirit  to  her  doom. 

Faintly  heard,  a  fairy  dirge  is  chanting, 

Faintly  glimpsed  her  face  amid  the  eddying  bloom. 

Blown  afar  the  fair  pavilion; 

Then  the  rain  comes  soft  and  slow; 

Sober  green  the  flower  replaces, 
When  the  Blossom  Wind  has  ceased  to  blow. 


GRAY  WEATHER 

I 

All  the  world's  in  love  with  May  Day- 
Open,  laughing  weather; 

Is  there  one  to  praise  the  gray  day— 
Mist-drops  in  the  heather? 

Said  the  poet: 

"Let  the  world  praise  only  May  Day, 
I  am  here  to  praise  the  gray  day! 
I,  mine  ear  attuning 
To  its  faint  communing, 
I,  its  sun  divining, 
Veiled  with  mist,  yet  shining — 
I  will  praise  the  gray  day." 

II 

All  the  world's  in  love  with  roses; 

Who  bestows  attention 
On  the  bud  that  ne'er  uncloses — 

Flower  of  dim,  wild  gentian? 

Said  the  poet: 

"Let  the  world  praise  only  roses, 
I  the  bud  that  ne'er  uncloses! 

Though  its  heart  deep-centered 
Never  bee  has  entered, 
Fancy,  tired  of  roaming, 
In  its  violet  gloaming 
Sinks  down  and  reposes!" 


39 


Ill 

All  the  world  pays  court  to  famed  ones 

High  in  honor  seated. 
Who  will  praise  the  great  unnamed  ones 

And  the  brave  defeated? 

Said  the  poet: 

"Let  the  world  pay  court  to  famed  ones, 
I  will  praise  the  great  unnamed  ones, 
Sing  their  viewless  trophies — 
Word  their  silent  strophes — 
I  their  own  true  lover; 
Till  the  world  discover 
These  its  great  unnamed  ones!" 


MIRAGE 

Treasure  the  shadow.      Somewhere,  firmly  based, 
Arise  those  turrets  that  in  cloud-land  shine; 

Somewhere,  to  thirsty  toilers  of  the  waste, 
Yon  phantom  well-spring  is  a  living  sign. 

Treasure  the  shadow.  Somewhere,  past  thy  sight, 
Past  all  men's  sight,  waits  the  true  heaven  at  last: 

Tell  them  whose  fear  would  put  thy  hope  to  flight, 
There  are  no  shadows  save  from  substance  cast. 


40 


NATURE  AND  MAN 

Oh,  the  glance  of  the  dew!  Oh,   the  flame    of  the  rose 

springing  forth  of  the  thorn ! 
Oh,  the  song  of  the  arrow-marked  finch  singing  love  in 

the  front  of  the  morn! 
Who  will  speak  to  them  all  of  the  rapture  they  wake  in 

the  children  of  men? 
Who  will  so  lovingly  speak,  they  will  heed,  and  answer 

again? 

The  glance  of  the  dew  but  repeateth  the  liquid  glance  of 

the  sky, 
And  the  flame  of  the  rose  is  not  brighter,  in  token,  as  man 

passes  by, 
And  the  song  of  the   finch,   though   his   little   heart  with 

ecstasy  break, 
From  the  answering  rapture  of  man  no  quickening  impulse 

shall  take. 

O  drops  of  the  dew!  O  pride  of  the  thorn!  O  singing 
bird! 

Is  there  never  a  mutual  tongue,  is  there  never  a  common 
word, 

Wherein  to  give  thanks,  wherein  to  give  praise,  from  the 
hearts  ye  have  filled? 

With  the  pure  distilment  of  joy  which  your  cup,  over 
brimming,  has  spilled? 


If  but  one  moment,  in  all  the  swift  season  giddy  with 
change, 

We  that  are  God's  one  creation,  yet  strangers,  might  be 
less  strange ! 

But  this  is  the  pain  of  the  pleasure — the  bitter-sweet  which 
man  drains : 

Unconscious-glad  Nature  unconscious  of  man  forever  re 
mains! 


WHEN  HOPE  IS  DONE 

Who  turns  away  from  gazing  at  the  sun 

Sees  its  dusk  images  fill  all  the  air. 
It  is  not  otherwise  when  Hope  is  done: 

Her  darkling  phantoms  make  the  heaven  of  Despair. 


42 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  BIRD 

Thou  art  clothed  on  with  plumes,  as  with  leaves, 

Frond-like,  and  lighter  than  air; 
Thy  pinions  are  arrows  in  sheaves, 

That  carry  thee  none  knoweth  where. 

Thou  fliest,  and  none  gives  pursuit, 
Thy  realm  both  the  earth  and  the  sky; 

Thou  hast  in  thy  bosom  a  flute, 
The  glance  of  a  soul  in  thine  eye. 

Thou  obeyest  a  sovran  power 

That  sets  thee  on  Summer's  track; 

Thou  knowest  the  tide  and  the  hour 
When  to  advance,  or  turn  back. 

Into  the  world  thou  art  flung, 

Thou  herald  of  rapture  and  light. 
Thou  weavest  a  home  for  thy  young — 

And  none  but  thyself  hath  the  sleight. 

Out  of  the  world  thou  art  gone, 

And  who  shall  say  where  is  thy  rest? 

A  rapture  and  light  are  withdrawn 
Into  some  Heaven-side  nest. 

For  who  of  my  kind  hath  beheld 
Where,  stricken,  were  any  of  thine? 

Hast  thou  not  been,  from  of  old, — 
A  spirit  unscathed  and  divine? 


43 


A  LIGHT   SLEEPER 

By  his  lov'd  nest  and  hopes,  sits  fast  asleep 
The  sedge-bird  in  some  dewy  covert  deep; 
Throw  the  least  pebble  there,  he  quickly  wakes 
Quickly  the  long  bright  day's  refrain  uptakes. 

So  is  it  with  the  Muse's  slumbering  child; 
His  couch  is  made  upon  Parnassus  wild; 
If  Sleep  depart,  Song  springs  within  his  breast, 
And  wakes  the  old  melodious  unrest. 


"NO  NESTS  AND  NO  SONGS" 

Why  are  ye  silent,  ye  dryads  of  thicket  and  grove? 

Perchance  from   the  fowler  ye    hide    and  brood    o'er 

your  wrongs. 
"Nay;  careless  and  songless  at  close  of  the  season  we  rove, 

Mute  are  we  all,  after  springtime — no  nests  and  no  songs  !y ' 

Wise  were  ye  ever,  ye  dryads  of  thicket  and  grove ! 

To  the  fullness  of  life  and  its  struggle  all  joyance  belongs : 
And  we — when  no  longer  we  strive,  as  blithely  we  strove — 

Is  it  so  with  ourselves  as  with  you — no  nests  and  no 
songs? 


44 


THE  HERITAGE  OF  SONG 

Children  of  that  great  Light  which  fills  the  sphere, 

And  of  the  Goddess  with  the  shaded  eyes, 
Dwelling  on  scenes  long  past,  and  passing  dear, — 

Such  are  the  Muses:  hence  their  kingdom  lies 
Neither  beneath  the  noon  nor  midnight  skies; 

A  blended  heritage, — to  them  belong 
The  regions  where  the  mistral  daybeam  dies 

And  cloud- wrought  purple  pageants  richlier  throng: 
Pensive  the  poet's  lot,  for  twilight  broods  o'er  song. 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  SORROW 

Yet,  know  ye  not  where  fire  the  soil  hath  charred, 
One  moon  shall  scarcely  fill  her  golden  round. 

Before  the  sweet  white  clover  shall  have  starred 
With  myriad  beauty  all  the  chastened  ground ! 

What  if  the  rubric  of  the  sword  have  sealed 
A  more  imperial  harvest  to  yon  plain? 

Each  soul  hath,  also,  some  such  battle-field — 
It  hath  the  vintage,  too,  of  Thrasymene! 


LEX  TALIONIS 

Say  the  finny  folk  who  glide  in  the  stream, 
"We  could  be  happy  the  whole  day  long 

Were  it  not  that  in  sun  or  in  shadow  we  dream 
Of  pinions  that  hover  to  do  us  wrong!" 

Say  the  people  whose  pathways  are  through  the  sky, 
"We  could  sing  our  songs,  we  could  brood  our  nests, 

Were  it  not  we  have  seen  our  fellows  lie 

With  a  strange  red  plume  on  their  silent  breasts!" 

The  fowler  mused  as  he  bagged  the  game, 
"How  careless  and  free  were  man's  estate 

Were  it  not  for  the  fear  he  scarce  can  name — 
Were  it  not  for  the  arrows  of  lurking  Fate!" 


THE  BEES  IN  FLORIDA 

To  that  soft,  floral  land,  where  lurks  no  storm, 
Where  hides  the  quest  of  Ponce  de  Leon, 

Bring  from  the  north  your  murmuring,  busy  swarm — 
No  sweets  they'll  hive  where  wintry  want  is  none! 

So  with  the  Muse's  child;  where  pleasures  are, 
Where  new  delights  arise,  unnamed,  unsought, 

No  song  he  makes  for  days  and  ears  afar, 

But  hovers  idly  in  the  sunshine  of  his  thought ! 


IN  THE  CHILDHOOD  OF  THE  MAY 

There  is  joy  and  there  is  pain, 

In  the  childhood  of  the  May; 
But  so  subtly  blent  the  twain, 

That  more  one-in-one  are  they 
Than  the  song  and  its  refrain, 

Or  the  sun-flecked  shadows'  play ! 

There  is  pain  and  there  is  joy 

In  the  childhood  of  the  May, — 

Pain  obscure  and  pleasure  coy: — 
Which  is  dearer  who  can  say? 

If  the  pain  we  would  destroy, 
Pleasure,  also,  we  must  slay ! 

There  is  joy  and  there  is  pain 

In  the  childhood  of  the  May; 
There  are  thoughts  we  cannot  chain, 

Yet  they  hold  ethereal  sway; 
Sunlit  gossamer — beaded  rain — 

Half  conceal  them,  half  betray! 

Dreams  once  dreamed  by  girl  and  boy, 
Half-remembered  dreams  are  they, 

Time  can  never  quite  destroy. 

Give  them  welcome,  give  them  way, 

Subtle  pain  and  subtler  joy, 
In  the  childhood  of  the  May ! 


47 


THE  LOVER'S  WORLD 

They  were  all  more  subtle  than  I, 

Who  moved  in  blind  rapture  among  them, 
"That  our  notes  are  new,  we  deny, 

A  thousand  times  over  we've  sung  them, 

Be  it  thrush,  or  linnet,  or  dove!" 
"Nay,  but  ye  birds,  one  and  all, 

Now  sing,  with  a  rounded  completeness, 
From  matin  to  vesper  call; 

Where  got  ye  that  marvelous  sweetness?" 
"From  the  voice  of  the  soul  of  thy  love!" 

They  were  all  more  subtle  than  I, 

Who  knelt  in  rapt  worship  before  them, 
"The  roses  of  summers  gone  by, 

Didst  thou  so  praise,  so  adore  them, 

And  set  them  all  roses  above?" 
"Nay;  but  ye  are  not  the  same — 

Ye  bloom  with  a  beauty  supremer; 
Where  got  ye  that  delicate  flame, 

Half  veiling  your  petals?"     "O  dreamer. 
From  the  light  of  the  soul  of  thy  love!" 


48 


A  LONE  WOMAN'S  WATCH-NIGHT 

All  the  dull  winter  day,  until  its  close, 

With  fingers  lithe  and  skilled — 

All  day  she'd  toiled  to  shape  the  mimic  rose, 

Whose  petals,  never  chilled, 

Are  Beauty's  challenge  in  our  wintry  clime. 

Now  in  her  attic  nook  above  the  world, 

While  the  bright  city  to  its  pleasures  whirled, 

By  one  lone  lamp  a  slender  glass  she  filled, 

And  held  it,  waiting  for  the  midnight  chime, 

The  while  she  mused  with  absent  eye  and  ear: 

There  was  a  joyous  time — 

Ah,  time,  how  long,  how  long  gone  by ! 

When  in  her  lather's  house,  with  cups  of  cheer 

The  laughing  guests  had  sped  the  parting  year   .    .    . 

And  now,  from  belfry  high, 

The  chime  rang  out  against  a  tingling  sky; 

And  while  the  crystal  solitude  grew  tense, 

She  raised  the  chalice  clear 

And  with  mute  pledging  intimate  and  dear 

She  drank  to  those  she  loved,  of  sundered  lot; 

She  drank  to  those  she  loved — but  who  forgot 
(A  memory,  Memory's  only  recompense); 
She  drank  to  those  whose  lips  in  dust  are  dry, 
Whose  spirits,  as  she  mused,  with  kindling  eye, 
Seemed  leaning  from  the  starlit  vague  immense, 
Though  veiled  to  sense! 


49 


And  if,  of  these  one  face  all  peerless  shone, — 
One  face, — long-lost  in  youth,  such  spell  it  wrought 
Her  own  grew  younger  with  so  dear  a  thought ! 
Thus,  lonely,  yet  forever  not  quite  lone 
Her  clear  face  lit  from  far  within  the  soul, 
With  Love  that  temporizeth  not  with  Doubt — 
With  memories  deathless  while  the  long  years  roll, 
She  watched  the  Old  Year  out. 


FORBEARANCE 

He  said — oft  questioned  why  his  wit's  keen  lance, 
Strikes  right  and  left,  his  bosom-friend  perchance, 
While  traitor  and  deserter  scathless  go  — 
"We  speak  no  evil  of  the  dead,  you  know!" 


THE  LINING  OF  THE  GLOVES 

Twas  in  the  stately  days  of  yore — 

Of  courtly  lore  and  loves, 
At  New  Year's  tide,  Sir  Thomas  More 
Received  a  gift  of  gloves. 

No  other  gloves  so  fine,  I  wist, 
Were  sent  that  New  Year's  Day! 

For  from  each  finger-tip  to  wrist, 
Well-filled  and  plump  were  they. 

Each  glove — a  purse — was  filled  with  gold 
(With  angels  from  the  mint)  ; 

And  as  each  piece  from  ambush  rolled, 
It  shot  a  laughing  glint; 

As  though  to  say:  On  New  Year's  Day, 
'Twixt  earnest  thought  and  sport, 

A  client  fair  her  fee  would  pay 
For  suit  well-won  at  court. 

A  dainty  missive,  too,  there  was 

(Ah,  days  ofdaintyhood!) 
"Fair  Sir,  for  favor  shown  my  cause, 

Have  proof  of  gratitude." 

The  glistening  store  Sir  Thomas  scanned, 

And  read  the  dainty  note; 
Then  took  his  subtle  pen  in  hand, 

And,  smilingly,  he  wrote: — 


"Lady,  upon  a  New  Year's  Day, 

No  gift  of  grace  we  spurn; 
But,  while  your  gloves  I  keep  for  aye, 

The  lining  I  return." 

Thus,  in  the  gracious  days  of  old, 
They  spake  in  gracious  phrase: 

'Twas  golden  speech  from  hearts  of  gold- 
Ah,  bring  me  back  those  days! 


HOW  MANY  A  YEAR 

How  many  a  year  I've  loved  thee- 

How  many  a  year, 
Whose  seasons  seemed  like  one — 
The  promissory  Spring, 
With  glints  of  hope,  of  fear, 
With  faint,  fair  blossoming, 
In  shadow  or  in  sun. 

How  many  a  year  I've  loved  thee, 

How  many  a  year 
Of  summers  all  foregone ! 
For  me,  may  yet  be  June; 
And  yet,  the  golden  sphere 
Of  the  full  harvest  moon 
In  the  sad  east  may  dawn! 

How  many  a  year  I  loved  thee — 

How  many  a  year! 
So  late  to  love  art  thou, 
Then  love  me  more  for  this; 
Beyond  the  desert  drear, 
Be  fount  and  oasis 
And  nectar-laden  bough! 


53 


SIEGE 

If  I  should  come  knocking,  knocking 

At  the  door  of  your  little  heart, 
You  in  soft  haste  would  be  locking 

The  portal  that  kept  us  apart; 
And  then  you  would  sit  at  some  window,  on  high, 
— Would  smile,  from  your  turret — and  even  defy ! 

But  the  Loves  to  my  aid  would  be  flocking — 

Would  besiege  you  on  every  side; 
And  soon  would  your  turret  be  rocking, 

And  soon  would  the  portal  swing  wide; 
And  the  Loves,  my  true  liegemen,  will  hasten  to  bring 
The  royal  sweet  captive  down  to  their  king. 

So,  instead  of  such  smiling  and  mocking, 
There  might  even  be  sighs  on  your  part, 

— As  on  mine — if  I  should  come  knocking 
At  the  door  of  your  little  heart ! 

Why  not  a  truce? — Oh!  why  not  then  yield, 

And  peace,  with  a  kiss,  at  the  doorway  be  sealed? 


54 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  WAR  TIME 

I 
One  said,  with  a  smile  on  her  proud  young  lips: 

"I  have  brothers  three;  they  are  far  on  the  sea, 
For  they  serve  on  the  decks  of  the  fighting  ships ! 

Is  it  strange  that  the  war  comes  home  to  me?" 

II 
"And  I,  had  I  father,  brothers,  or  friend, 

I  would  give  them  all  at  my  country's  call! 
My  sorrow  is,  I  have  none  to  send, 

And  my  share  in  the  glorious  war  is  small!" 

Ill 

But  the  third  arose  with  face  aglow: 

"Mine  are  a  hundred  thousand  strong, — 

Wherever  my  countryman  meets  the  foe, — 

And  my  heart's  in  the  war  the  whole  day  long!" 


55 


ONE  WOMAN'S  VOICE  AGAINST  WAR 
I 

The  voice  of  my  sisters  I  hear  ( Oh  voice  of  the    summer 

leaves ! 
Oh  voice  of  the  murmuring  waters !    Oh,  light  if  it  laughs 

or  it  grieves!) 
They  are  sending  you  forth,  O  men;  they  are  bidding  you 

arm  straightway; 
But  they  see  not,  as  I  can  see,   men  biting  the  dust  in  the 

fray, 
They  see  not,  as  I  can  see,  men  pouring  the  blood  of  the 

brave — 
And  the  craven,  at  home,  survives,  while  the  hero   sleeps 

in  his  grave! 

They  see  not,  as  I  can  see — that  their  daughters'   daugh 
ters  shall  wed 
With  the  sons  of  the  craven,  born  of  the  blood  too  pale 

to  be  shed! 
They    see  not,    the    money-changers    unscourged  in    the 

temple  remain, 
When  those  that  were  fearless  to  strike — the  best  of  the 

nation  are  slain; 
For  the  veins  of  a  race  once  shrunken,   the  hearts  of  the 

race  beat  low, 
And  the  valor  we  worshipped — a  flame  unfed — no  longer 

shall  glow ! 

II 

The  voice  of  my  sisters  I  hear:  ttWe  offer  our  dearest,  our 

all, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  lover,  for  country,  if  need  be,  to 

fall! 

56 


Wha t  more  can  we  pledge  than  we  pledge — as  daughters, 

as  sisters,  as  wives?" 

Let  the  voice  of  my  sisters  be  mute,  for  they  hold  their  in 
violate  lives! 
Not  a  hair  of  their  heads  shall  be  stirred  by  the  wind  of  the 

winnowing  shot ; 
They  shall  not  languish  in  prison,  nor  in  the  dull  earth   be 

forgot ! 
One  is  the  life  of  each  mortal — and  that  is  not  theirs,  which 

they  yield! 
Let  them  be  hushed  to  remember  the  breast  of  the  man   is 

their  shield: 

Not  till  her  life  she  shall  peril    on  battle' s  shivering    edge, 
The  soul  of  a  woman  shall  waken,  to  know  how  costly  the 

pledge! 

Ill 
The  voice  of  my  sisters  forgive !      Forgive  them,   ye    men 

who  are  theirs; 
For  they  know  not  the  words  they  utter,  sending  ye  forth, 

though  with  prayers, 
I  have  none  of  my  own  to  send  forth;  but,  for  swordmen 

doomed  to  the  sword, 
Tears  were  my  daily  drink,  were  the  blood  of  the  meanest 

out-poured! 
Awake,  or  asleep,  I    should  see  the  dark  stream  with    the 

life  taking  flight — 
The    damp  of  the   death-dew    beading — the  eye   without 

vision  or  light ! 
My    sisters — they  see  not    the   sight,  or  their  lips    would 

be  holden  of  speech, 
And  the  voice  of  their  hearts,  ever  sleepless,  for  "peace," 

and  but  ' 'peace!"  would  beseech. 

57 


THE  HEALING  HAND 

As  some  faint,  rosy  cloud  at  even  drifts 

O'er  lands  of  death  and  wild  volcanic  rifts, 

She  came  (the  battle  past);  she  bent  her  head; 

"Thou  art  my  country's  foe,  and  mine,"  she  said, 

"But  yet  my  human  brother,  though  at  strife; 

So  must  I  balm  thy  wounds  and  give  thee  back  thy  life!" 

So  well  did  she  the  healing  balm  outpour 

She  gave  him  back  his  life — Gave  she  no  more? 

As  some  faint,  rosy  cloud  at  even  blends, 

Blends  with  the  rosy  sea,  as  it  descends, 

Love  touched  the  heart  as  Pity  bent  the  head; 

"Thou  art  my  country's  foe — not  mine!"  she  softly  said. 


GUARDING  THE  PASS 

There,  as  thou  liest,  beloved,  thy  lips  at  parley  with  naught, 
There,    as   thou   liest,  beck'ning    to  naught  with   thy 

wavering  hand, — 
Thine    eyes   unbeholding    or  filled  but  with    pageants   by 

fantasy  wrought. — 
Thy  legions  oflife  in  revolt  and  fain  at  a  sign  to  disband, 

To  be  gone  at  a  breath, — 

There,  as  thou  liest,  I,  all  the  night,  like  a  sentinel  stand, 
Guarding  the  Pass  that  leads  to  the  Land  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death ! 

All  the  long  night,  O   beloved,  I  listen   and  watch   in  my 

place; 
There  is  none  that  is  with  me, — not  one;  but  single  of 

hand  I  must  fight; 
Even  the  stars  that  were  wont  to  look  down  with  compas- 

sioning  grace, 
Now  brighten  and  glow  with  desire  to  draw  into  heaven 

thy   light; 

And  the  wind  at  the  casement  saith, 
" Release  the  loved  soul!" — I  am  one  against   many, — 

alone  in  the  night, 

Guarding  the  Pass  that  leads  to  the  land  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death! 


59 


LOST  OPPORTUNITY 

"There  is  a  nest  of  thrushes  in  the  glen; 

When  we  come  back,  we'll  see  the  glad  young  things," 
He  said.      We  came  not  by  that  way  again; 

And  Time  and  thrushes  fare  on  eager  wings ! 

"Yon  rose" — she  smiled — "but  no,  when  we  return, 
Pll  pluck  it  then."      'Twas  on  a  summer  day. 

The  ashes  of  the  rose  in  Autumn's  urn 

Lie  hidden  well.      We  came  not  back  that  way. 

We  do  not  pass  the  selfsame  way  again, 
Or,  passing  by  that  way,   nothing  we  find 

As  it  before  had  been;  but  death,  or  stain, 
Hath  come  upon  it,  or  the  wasteful  wind. 

The  very  earth  is  envious,  and  her  arms 

Reach  for  the  beauty  that  detained  our  eyes; 

Yea,  it  is  lost,  beyond  the  aid  of  charms, 

If,  once  within  our  grasp,  we  leave  the  prize. 

Thou  traveller  to  the  unknown  Ocean's  brink, 

Through  Life's  fair  fields,  say  not,  "Another  day 

This  joy  I'll  prove:"  for  never,  as  I  think, 
Never  shall  we  come  back  this  selfsame  way! 


60 


AT  A  NORTH  WINDOW 

One  morning  only  of  the  gradual  year 

The  sunshine  on  her  window-ledge  may  fall; 

Oh,  marvel  not  her  heart  is  full  of  fear 

Lest  clouds  that  morning  keep  the  sun  in  thrall ! 


THE  GUEST  OF  A  SUMMER 

I  was  a  poet's  guest. 

He  bade  me  be  free  with  his  treasure, 
With  all  that  made  mirth,  or  gave  pleasure, 

Soothed  sorrow,  or  ministered  rest. 

He  bade  such  as  ran  at  his  hest 

Serve  mine,  without  stinting  or  measure. 

Sightly  his  fair  demesne 

Set  well  on  the  verge  of  the  land. 

And  he  said:  "From  this  cliff  thou  mayst  lean 

And  hearken  the  while  the  gray  sea, 

Pacing  all  day  the  bright  strand, 

Makes  a  lute  of  each  scattered  shell. 

And  hereby  I  cede  unto  thee 

This,  my  cool  sylvan  cell, 

All  around  curtained  with  green  — 

Live  green  of  the  evergreen  tree; 

All  above,  frescoes  divine, 

Shot  in  the  changeable  woof 

Of  the  magical  music-swayed  roof. 

All  this,  with  its  service,   be  thine." 


61 


I  was  a  simple  guest, 

To  think  he  could  make  such  bequest, 

Or  my  hands  with  his  treasure  be  crowned ! 
For  soon,  that  the  master  was  one, 

And  the  servant  another — I  found, 
Unfain  at  my  bidding  to  run. 

The  sea  on  the  shingle  did  beat — 
No  lute-tone  I  heard  in  the  sound! 

The  wind  through  the  pine  tops  ran  fleet; 
The  stars  through  the  pine-tops  did  shine; 
But  I  saw  not  the  frescoes  divine! 

Wherefore,  I  now  understand 
None  but  himself  can  have  seen 
How  fair  is  the  poet's  demesne, 
Set  well  on  the  bourne  of  the  land ; 
And  none  but  himself  can  have  heard 
The  sounds  that  his  spirit  have  stirred! 


THE  PERFECT  HOUR 

Lo!  the  fleeting  Perfect  Hour! 
Spring  and  Summer  lend  their  dower; 
All  that  either  can  bestow 
To  her  dear  adornment  go : 
Therefore  is  such  subtle  art 
Joined  with  childhood's  simple  heart. 
Sweet  inheritor  of  joy — 
Ever  beckoning,  ever  coy! 

Lo !  the  winged  Perfect  Hour, 
Poised  between  the  fruit  and  flower, 
Sees  the  cherished  apple  set 
'Mid  the  branches  dewy-wet — 
Sees  the  tardy  quince-tree  last 
Her  shell-tinted  flower  to  cast — 
Sees  the  down-ball  lightly  plumed 
Where  the  golden  disc  hath  bloomed; 
While  the  June-grass  breaks  in  spray, 
As  the  soft  breeze  takes  its  way, 
And  the  ripple  of  the  wheat 
Rises  round  her  blessing  feet. 

Lo!  the  fleeting  Perfect  Hour, 
Hath  from  May  and  June  her  dower! 
In  the  thicket  she  hath  heard 
Hymeneal  pipe  of  bird, 
And  the  dim-voiced  woodland  dove 
Hath  not  hushed  her  plaint  of  love. 
Yet  she  hears  the  fledgling  throat 
Utter  its  first  matin  note 


Full  of  wonder  and  amaze, 
Heard  no  more  in  riper  days. 

Lo!  the  affluent  Perfect  Hour! 
All  things  feel  her  sovran  power 
Swift  across  the  vanward  rose 
Tender  flame  of  crimson  blows, 
That  no  later  bloom  may  share; 
Holiest  holies  centre  there; 
In  its  heart  a  censer  breathes, 
In  its  heart  a  passion  sheathes; 
Passion  into  song  must  flower — 
Sing,  all  hearts,  the  Perfect  Hour. 


BEYOND  MEMORY 

'Tis  not  that  I  forget  thee  gone  from  here, — 
All  things  on  earth  are  speaking  still  of  thee; 

But  thou — what  sight  or  sound  can  bring  earth  near? 
Soul  of  my  soul,  canst  thou  remember  me? 


64 


THE  EVENING  ROAD 

"Sublustri  noctis  in  umbra" 

Before  me,  in  the  waning  light, 

The  Evening  Road  lay  straight  and  white, 

Muffled  in  summer  dust. 
The  surging  trees  rose  left  and  right, — 
Black  billows  in  the  gathering  night, 

And  whispered  the  light  gust. 

As  the  wheel  drove  with  rapid  gyre 
I  saw  upon  the  whirling  tire 

A  phosphorescent  gleam; 
At  the  tenth  round,  I  saw  expire 
The  firefly's  little  spark  of  fire, 

The  night  could  not  redeem. 

I  saw,  upon  a  naked  mound 

Where  forest-fire  had  swept  the  ground, 

A  tree  bare  and  alone; 
Tossing  his  mightless  arms  around, 
He  stood  like  some  old  king  discrowned 

And  driven  from  his  throne. 

I  saw,  against  the  haunted  sky, 
A  small,  belated  bird  dart  by, 

Far  straying  from  the  nest, 
While  in  pursuit,  with  ravin-cry, 
Night-favored  wings  did  swiftly  fly, 

And  ever  closelier  pressed. 


I  saw,  (deserted  long  agoj 

A  cot  with  crannied  roof  sunk  low 

And  doors  that  stood  ajar; 
Beyond,  like  ghostly  taper's  glow, 
Those  rifted  chambers  searching  slow, 

I  saw  the  evening  star. 

I  saw — but  all  I  saw  without 
Still  imaged  forth  the  inner  doubt, 

The  dread,  the  restless  goad, — 
The  griefs,  that  in  a  hovering  rout 
Compass  that  lonely  soul  about, 

Who  takes  The  Evening  Road. 


66 


SILENT  AMYCKdE 

(Virgil,  ^Eneid  10,  v.  564.) 

I 

In  Silent  Amyclae 

They  fear  not  the  foray  invading  by  night, 
The  lance  flashing  challenge  afar  on  the  height, 
The  vessels  of  war  swift-cleaving  the  foam, 
The  spy  from  without,  nor  the  traitor  at  home; 
They  fear  but  false  rumor  and  panic  alarms, 
When  the  fool  and  the  craven  would  rally  to  arms, 
In  Silent  Amyclas. 

II 

In  Silent  Amyclae 

They  have  sworn  by  the  Gods  and  the  Brothers  divine 
Who  white  through  the  dust  of  the  battle  shine — 
By  the  Brothers  they  swear,  that  who  raiseth  the  cry, 
"Arm!  for  the  foe  is  upon  us!"  shall  die — 
Be  he  priest  of  the  temple,  or  bondsman,  or  lord, 
He  dies  if  he  utters  the  warning  abhorred 

In  silent  Amyclae! 

Ill 

In  Silent  Amyclae 

Now  Fear  is  afraid  and  the  voices  of  Fear 
Are  quiet  this  many  and  many  a  year; 
No  oracle  threats,  no  presage  is  heard, 
They  scan  not  the  victim  nor  flight  of  the  bird; 
No  pilgrim  may  enter  with  tidings  of  ill; 
At  the  gate  the  voice  of  the  warder  is  still 

In  silent  Amyclae. 

67 


IV 

In  Silent  Amyclx 

One  midnight  the  sound  of  a  legion  tread ! 
All  hear,  but  they  speak  not  nor  whisper  their  dread, 
Alike  do  they  tremble — dastard  and  brave, 
From  the  sword  and  the  torch  swift  runs  the  red  wave- 
By  mornlight  a  city  all  voiceless  and  drear! 
How  art  thou  undone  through  thy  scorn  of  all  fear, 
Ah,  silent  Amyclge! 


68 


THE  LAND  OF  LOST  HOPES 

"A  traveler  in  this  land  of  lost  hopes,  where  I  have  wast 
ed  most  that  is  precious  in  life." 

(FROM  A  LETTER) 

And  journeying  on,  we  came  to  that  wide  land 
Where  seldom  any  sought  or  forced  return; 

For  either  breaks  the  trembling  bridge  that  spanned 
The  torrent  stream  (that  country's  restless  bourn), 
Or  word  will  come,  the  friend  we  used  to  mourn 

Dwells  there,  and  if  but  far  enough  we  roam, 
We,  surely,  in  good  time  must  tidings  learn: 

At  last,  in  glooming  peace,  we  make  our  home, 

And  please  the  alien  god  with  vows  and  hecatomb. 

When  first  we  came,  we  marveled  much  to  see 

Innumerous  paths  that  wound  by  dale  and  hill — 
That  here  might  pause  beneath  the  nooning  tree, 

And  there  might  wander  by  some  pleasant  rill; 

So  on  through  sun  and  shade  they  bent  until 
They  suddenly  to  darksome  dells  would  sink; 

Yet  there  the  pastoral  pipes  were  playing  still ! 
The  Shepherd  of  Lost  Hopes  by  some  green  brink 
Poured  the  sweet  stream  from  which  the  crowding  flock 
would  drink! 


That  Shepnerd  takes  a  tithe  from  every  flock 

In  every  land — the  fairest  and  the  best. 
He  shelters  them  beneath  the  hollow  rock; 

He  folds  the  young  and  wayworn  to  his  breast. 

But  one  shall  wander  east  and  wander  west, 
Who  thus  hath  lost  his  white  and  fairest  hope, 

Yet  never  meet  the  darling  of  his  quest, 
Not  though  he  searched  the  wood  and  sunshine  slope, 
Or  down  those  music-haunted  depths  should  dare  to  grope. 

Now,  harkening  to  that  unseen  Melodist, 

This  would  we  note:  how  brave  so  e'er  the  strain, 
We  evermore  the  close  and  cadence  missed; 

Nor  died  in  happy  languor  the  refrain, 

But  even  as  those  paths  broke  off  amain, 
So  all  at  once  would  cease  the  lovely  sound! 

Yet,  like  a  lapsing  wind,  it  rose  again, 
Elusive,  borne  from  some  remoter  ground: 
Alas !  naught  in  that  land  is  with  fruition  crowned. 

For  where  the  brooding  bird  sat  yestermorn, 

And  her  mate  fed  her,  warbling  his  delight 
There  was  at  evening-time  a  cry  forlorn, 

And  quivering  wings,  and  unreturning  flight ; 

While  fragments,  all  of  shelly  blue  or  white, 
Were  scattered  on  the  ground  beneath  the  nest; 

Or  else,  unbrooded,  to  the  chill  of  night 
Those  orphaned  treasures  lay,  while  the  soft  breast 
That  cherished  them  was  now  in  piteous  crimson  dressed, 


70 


And  where  the  bladed  corn,  in  sunny  green, 
Stood  tiptoe  waiting  for  the  evening  dew, 

In  darkness  there  was  swung  a  sickle  keen, 
Or  else  from  out  the  south  a  hot  flame  blew, 
Whereat  those  tender  legions  downward  drew. 

And  in  the  orchard,  where  the  willing  bough 
Had  lately  smiled  in  flowers,  a  canker  grew. 

Thus,  peerless  Summer  broke  her  golden  vow; 

All  promise  failed  all  hearts,  yet  none  knew  why  nor  how. 

The  egg  unquickened  and  the  futile  bloom 

Are  types  repeated  there  forevermore: 
Unfinished  is  the  fabric  in  the  loom; 

Unroofed  to  heaven  the  palace  built  in  yore, 

Unmatched  the  gleaming  marbles  of  its  floor. 
And  as  wild  Nature,  and  the  works  of  man, 

So  is  the  man  unto  his  bosom's  core: 
His  words  die  off  that  with  warm  speech  began, 
His  thoughts  defiled  away,  a  visionary  clan. 

And  while,  elsewhere,  may  tears  be  dropped  for  him, 

That  tears  can  be,  he  hath  himself  forgot, 
Long  feeding  on  that  music,  dear  and  dim, 

Loosed  from  the  sunken  world  of  dell  and  grot. 

He  is  become  enamoured  of  his  lot. 
And  hence,  while  others  follow  other  clues, 

One  care  hath  he — to  reach  the  tuneful  spot 
Where,  freshened  by  Elysian  winds  and  dews, 
The  Shepherd  of  Lost  Hopes  a  broken  strain  renews ! 


TIMON  TO  THE  ATHENIANS 

"Bat  the  roof  is  so  low!"  they  said. 

He  smiles  in  return, — "Is  it  so? 

Well,  were  it  high  as  'tis  low 

(The  roof  that  covers  my  head), 

I  should  look  through  it  still  to  'the  sky!" 

"But  the  walls,"  they  said  with  a  sigh 

"The  walls  of  your  house  are  so  narrow, 

Fit  only  to  cage  in  a  sparrow!" 

"Yet  I  take,  when  I  list  to  fly, 

A  thousand-league  journey  in  thought!" 

"On  your  table,"  they  said,  "there  is  naught 
But  some  bread  and  wild  fruit  from  the  waste." 
"But  how,  if  the  flavor  I  taste? 
Do  they  so  whose  dainties,  far-brought, 
With  the  mere  seeing  can  sate?" 

"But,"  they  said,  "here  are  none  to  wait  — 
To  heed — and  to  run,  at  thy  call!" 
"The  master  is  servant  to  all, 
Being  slave  to  the  master's  estate; 

If  myself  I  can  serve,  I  am  free, 

Say  this  to  your  masters  from  me." 


72 


WHERE  GOEST  THOU 

I 
" Where  goest  thou?" 

"To  help  the  Weak, who  throng 
My  gates  and  cry  continually  for  aid: 
Where  goest  thou?" 

"To  help  the  unpitied  Strong, 
Whom  those  that  thou  wouldst  help  do  overlade. ' ' 

II 

"Where  goest  thou?" 

"To  judge  the  souls  that  stray; 

They  best  can  judge  who  spotless  hands  can  show. ' ' 
"Fall  back!  The  rod  of  judgment  I  will  sway; 

They  judge  of  evil  best  who  do  and  know." 

Ill 

"Where  goest  thou?" 

"To  see  the  laughing  mime; 
I  go  for  respite — sorrow  haunts  my  hearth. 
And  thou?" 

"To  look  on  pageant  grief  sublime; 
Joy  dwells  with  me,  and  I  am  cloyed  with  mirth." 

IV 

"Thou  ^oest  to  mold  thy  life,  brave  youth?  Well,  go: 
But  whosoever  thou  shalt  take  to  friend, 

And  wheresoever  thou  shalt  turn  thee — know 
'T  is  Life  itself  shall  mold  thee,  in  the  end." 


73 


A  KNIGHT  ERRANT  OF  THE  SOUL 

From  many  cups  have  I  drunk  deep  delight, — 
A  favored  guest  where  free  the  revel  flowed; 

But  sometime,  either  at  the  dead  of  night, 

Or  when  the  first  faint  rose  of  morning  glowed, 

I  heard  the  Call,  howe'er  so  far,  so  light, 
That  bade  me  rise  and  take  the  lonely  road; 

"Pass  on,"  it  sighed — "pass  on!" 

Or  if  with  joy,  in  dreadless  arms,  I  spurred 

To  fields  where  honor's  edge  is  kept  from  rust; 

Or  if  the  beating  heart  of  love  I  heard, 

Pillowed  upon  a  breast  all  warmth,  all  trust, — 

Mid  clash  of  swords,  or  throb  of  hearts,  I  heard 
The  rising  whisper  of  the  Under  word; 

"Pass  on,"  it  said — "pass  on!" 

Or  when  before  the  altar  I  would  lift 

My  prayer  for  grace  which  erring  men  implore 

(And  as  their  need,  so  measured  is  the  gift), 
Ere  yet  my  soul  received  of  heavenly  store, 

Ere  yet  had  holy  lips  pronounced  my  shrift, 

The  goading  Voice  was  heard,  oft  heard  before: 

"Pass  on,"  and  still — "pass  on!" 


74 


This  was  the  Voice  my  pleasures  loathed  to  hear; 

This  Voice  dispelled  my  griefs  like  morning  mists; 
This  Voice  hath  played  with  hope,  and  flouted  fear, 

Both  won  and  lost  for  me  in  bannered  lists. 
But  where  my  youth  would  heed  with  varying  cheer, 

Mine  age  obeys,  yet  wooes  not,  nor  resists: 
"Pass  on!"  (I  hear.)  "Pass  on!" 

Of  many  cups  have  I  drunk  deep  delight — 
I  drank  the  bead,  nor  ever  touched  the  lees! 

And,  nearing  now  the  low  door  hid  from  sight, 
I  shall  not  cross  the  bound  by  slow  degrees; 

One  way  of  Life,  of  Death,  I  deem  aright, 

The  Voice  supreme  with  steadfastness  decrees: — 

To  me  it  saith,  "Pass  on!" 


75 


AS  I  WENT  FORTH 

As  I  went  forth 

That  morn,  they  but  forgot  to  show 
The  signal  from  the  great  hall  door 
They  turned  them  to  their  task  or  play; 
They  but  forgot, — no  more. 

As  I  went  forth, 
The  lamp  within  the  windowed  tower 

That  eve  they  but  forgot  to  set; 
Yet  wherefore  doubt,  when  well  I  know 

(True  hearts!)  they  love  me  yet? 

As  I  go  forth, — 
As  I  go  forth  upon  that  road 

Where  none  are  passed  and  none  are  met,- 
Will  it  be  so!     Will  they  still  love, 

And  will  they  but  forget? 

As  we  go  forth, 
Such  wistful  looks  we  backward  throw, 

To  see  if  yet  their  signal  flies; 
For  thus  'twill  be  when  we  have  said 

The  last  of  all  good-bys. 


THE  DEEP-SEA  PEARL 

The  love  of  my  life  came  not 
As  love  unto  others  is  cast; 

For  mine  was  a  secret  wound — 

But  the  wound  grew  a  pearl,  at  last. 

The  divers  may  come  and  go, 
The  tides,  they  arise  and  fall; 

The  pearl  in  its  shell  lies  sealed, 
And  the  Deep  Sea  covers  all. 


THE  DIAMOND 

Oh,  liken  not  the  diamond  to  a  star, 

Nor  to  a  dewdrop  clear;  for,  from  the  one 
Looks  down  a  soul  beloved,  though  gone  afar; 

And  in  the  other  are  the  tears  that  run, 
All  silently,  for  Sorrow's  sweet  relief; 

Oh,  liken  not  the  diamond  to  a  star, 
Nor  to  a  dewdrop  flickering  in  the  sun — 

The  diamond  keen  knows  neither  Love  nor  Grief! 


77 


CAPRICE  OF  THE  MUSES 

Of  old  the  Muses  sat  on  high, 

And  heard  and  judged  the  songs  of  men; 
On  one  they  smiled,  who  loitered  by: 

Of  toiling  ten,  they  slighted  ten. 

"They  lightly  serve  who  serve  us  best, 
Nor  know  they  how  the  task  was  done; 

We  Muses  love  a  soul  at  rest, 
But  violence  and  toil  we  shun." 

If  men  say  true,  the  Muses  now 

Have  changed  their  ancient  habitude, 

And  would  be  served  with  knitted  brow, 
And  stress  and  toil  each  day  renewed. 

So  each  one  with  the  other  vies, 

Of  those  who  weave  romance  or  song: 

"On  us,  O  Muse,  bestow  the  prize, 
For  we  have  striven  well  and  long!" 

And  yet  methinks  I  hear  the  hest 

Come  murmuring  down  from  Helicon: 

"They  lightly  serve  who  serve  us  best, 
Nor  know  they  how  the  task  was  done!" 


RANK-AND-FILE 

You  might  have  painted  that  picture, 
I  might  have  written  that  song: 

Not  ours,  but  another's  the  triumph, 
'Tis  done  and  well  done — so  'long! 

You  might  have  fought  in  the  vanguard, 
I  might  have  struck  at  foul  Wrong: 

What  matters  whose  hand  was  the  foremost? 
'Tis  done  and  well  done — so  'long! 

So  'long,  and  into  the  darkness, 
With  the  immemorial  throng — 

Foil  to  the  few  and  the  splendid: 

All's  done  and  well  done — so  'long! 

Yet,  as  we  pass,  we  will  pledge  them — 
The  bold,  and  the  bright,  and  the  strong 

(Ours  was  never  black  envy): 

All's  done  and  well  done — so  'long! 


79 


THE  FLUTES  OF  THE  GOD 

Oh  that  I  knew    where  to    find    thee, — to    fall,    and 

encompass  thy  knees, — 

Thou,  as  thou  art,  austere,  with     thy  turrets  and  dun 
geoning  keys, 
Thou,  with  the  frondage  of  oak,    that  enshadows  thy 

grave,  straight  brows! 
I  would  cling  to  thy  knees  till  thou  wouldst  absolve  the 

Corybant's  vows, — 
Even  his  vows,  who  was  mine,  ere  the  voice  from  the 

forested  hill, 
With  the  flutes  and  the  cymbals,  he  followed,  and  them 

he  followeth  still! 
He  follows,  he  dreams,  with  wide  eyes  all  bare  of  the 

curtains  of  sleep; 
He  heeds  not  the  dawn  on  the  height,  nor  the  shadows 

as  upward  they  creep, — 
If  the  arrows  of  winter  be  forged,  or  the  flame  of  the 

summer  be  fanned! 
He  feels  not  the  thong    of  the  priest,  nor  the  blade  in 

the  lean,  wild  hand; 
Crimson  the  thorn-set  path  where  the  foot  unsandaled 

hath  trod. 
He  stayeth  for  none  he  shall  meet, — he  hears  but  the 

flutes  of  the  God ! 

The  mother  that  bore  him,  the  father  that  guided  afield 

his  young  feet, 
Into  the  wilderness  journey,  they  come  to  thy  desolate 

seat. 
At  the  foot  of  a   fir  tree  they  find  him.     Trembling, 

their  knees  and  their  speech: 

80 


"Come  tway,  thou,  our  support!     Like  the  vine  in  the 

wind  we  outreach; 
Prop  have  we  none;  we  are  stripped,  we  are  shaken  by 

every  gust; 
Withers  unripencd  our  fruit,  and  we  stoop  to  be  gathered 

to  dust. 
Leave  thy  dark  seat  by  the  fir  tree,   and  hear  us  while 

yet  thou  mayst  hear!'* 
Their  voices  die  off  on  the  waste,  and  the  sigh  of  the  fir 

tree  comes  drear. 
They  wait  for  the  voice  in  response;  he  uprcars  his  thin 

form  from  the  sod: 
"What  say  ye?     Who  speaketh?     I  hear — I  hear  but 

the  flutes  of  the  God!'* 

I  was  the  maiden  betrothed,  and  "Surely,"  they  said, 

"thou  shah  go, 
Shalt  touch  his  dead  heart  into  life,    and  his  eyes  shall 

regain  their  lost  glow !' ' 
Breathless,  I  trod  the  lone    ways.      Among    the    mad 

priests,  as  he  ranged, 
I  beheld  whom  I  loved,  but  ah!    I    beheld    him    how 

changed,  how  estranged! 
I  had  drawn  him  apart  from  their  throng,  I  had  whispered 

the  words  that  are  charms, 
Had  touched  his  dead  heart  into  life,  and  pillowed    hi? 

head  in  my  arms; 
But  farther  and  farther  aloof,  to  the  notes  of  wild  music 

he  trod. 
"Who  follows?"  he  cried, — "who   follows?     I    hear 

but  the  flutes  of  the  God!" 


81 


Oh  that  I  knew  where  to  find  thee!     Whether,    'mid 

autumn's  increase, 
With  the  young  of  the  year  around    thee,    thou    givest 

them  plenty  with  peace; 
Or  whether,  dark-thoughted,  remote  through  the  waste, 

thy  deity  roves, 
And  the  eyes  of  thy  lions  glance  fire,  in  the  twilight  ot 

dells  and  of  groves. 
Bright  are  their  eyes  impatient,  the  blast   of  the  desert 

their  breath; 
Who  crosseth  their  path,  without  thee,  shall    surely  be 

doomed  unto  death. 
Yet,  mother  of  gods  and  of  men,  of  the   broods  of  the 

earth  and  the  rocks, — 
Thou,  Berecynthia,    hear!  by  thy   love,   by   his   dark 

flowing  locks, 
By  the  smile  on  his  lips,  by  the  dream  in  his  eyes,  thou 

sendest  at  will, 
By  the  soft-drawn  sigh  while  thou  watchest  his  slumber 

amid  the  high  hill! 
Thine  Atys  thou  hast,  though  a  sleeper;  the  care  from 

his  forehead  is  smoothed; 
But  he  whom  I  love  never  sleeps,   and  his  wild  eyes 

never  be  soothed! 
Give  him  but  peace  and  my  arms,  and  quiet  supreme, 

in  the  end; 
Bid  some  old  fir  tree  his  branches  above    us    in  shelter 

extend; 
Then,  the  life  to  the  air,  the  frail  substance  that  held  it 

awhile  to  the    clod: 
So  shall  he  waken  and  madden  no  more  to  the  flutes  of 

the  God! 


82 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  LAWS 

This  from  that  soul  incorrupt  whom  Athens  had   doomed 

to  the  death, 
When  Crito  brought  promise  of  freedom:  "Vainly  thou 

spendest  thy  breath! 
Dost  remember  the  wild  Corybantes?  feel  they  the  knife  or 

the  rod? 
Heed  they  the  fierce  summer  sun,   the  frost,   or  winterly 

flaws? — 
If  any  entreat  them,  they  answer,  « We  hear  but  the  flutes 

of  the  God!' 

"So  even  am  I,  O  my  Crito!  Thou  pleadest  a  losing  cause! 
Thy  words  are  but  sound  without  import — I  hear  but  the 

voice  of  the  Laws; 
And,  know  thou!  the  voice  of  the  Laws  is  to  me  as  the 

flutes  of  the  God/' 

Thus  spake  that  soul  incorrupt;  and  wherever,  since  hemlock 

was  quaffed, 
A  man  has  stood  forth  without  fear — has  chosen  the  dark 

deep  draught — 
Has  taken  the  lone  one  way,  nor  the  path  of  dishonor  has 

trod — 
Behold!  he,   too,  hears  but  the  voice  of  the  Laws,  the 

flutes  of  the  God. 


A  VISION  OF  BRAVE  MEN 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      From  eldest  time, 
Of  alien  speech,  of  every  race  and  clime! 

Their  deeds  of  valor  flow  and  shine, 

Like  wind-blown  torches  in  long  line. 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      These  were,  who  marched, 
At  great  Cambyses'  hcst,  through  deserts  parched. 
The  driving  sands  make  dark  the  air, 
The  drifting  sands  their  couch  prepare. 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      These  were,  whose  swords 
By  gulf  and  pass  repelled  the  Persian  hordes; 

Nor  can  the  hero  sleep  for  thought 

Of  deeds  Miltiades  has  wrought. 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      Toward  Palestine 
These  strive,  pale  faces  lit  as  from  the  shrine; 

The  cross  goes  down  before  their  eyes. 

They  sleep, — to  wake  in  Paradise. 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      The  Six  who  came 

(Round  their  strong  necks  the  hempen  cord  of  shame), 

And  of  the  conqueror  lowly  craved 

That  their  loved  city  might  be  saved. 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      Closed  in  by  craft, 
These  drink  from  Mexique  waters  death's  dark  draught. 
In  the  still  Lake  they  clash  and  fall — 
Trist  Night  receives  them  one  and  all! 


A  vision  of  brave  men.      These  follow  Him 
Whose  star  has  led  through  lands  the  snow  makes  dim; 
With  richer  drops  the  snow  has  blushed 
Than  ever  from  the  grape  were  crushed ! 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      These  were,  whose  hands 
Were  lifted  up  to  smite  off  servile  bands — 

My  country!  these,  the  latest  birth 

Of  godlike,  warring  men  on  earth! 

A  vision  of  brave  men.      The  shadowy  plain 
Resounds  to  many  a  mingled  martial  strain; 

And  deeds  of  valor  flow  and  shine, 

Like  wind-blown  torches  in  long  line ! 

These  were,  whose  cause  the  God  of  Battles  crowned 
These  were  on  whom  incensed  Heaven  frowned; 

But  all  is  now  by  them  forgot, 

Save  that  in  fight  they  faltered  not. 

< 'There  is  one  language  of  the  brave,"  they  cry, 
"  If re  fought!   Valor  lives  on,  tho*  causes  die! 
There  is  one  kindred  of  the  brave, — 
However  we  fought,  'twas  Life  we  gave!" 


THE  COMPASS 

Touch  but  with  gentlest  finger  the  crystal  that  circles  the 

Mariner's  Guide — 
To  the  East  and  the  West  how  it  drifts,   and  trembles, 

and  searches  on  every  side! 
But  it  comes  to  its  rest,  and  its  light  lance  poises  only  one 

self-same  way 
Since  ever  a  ship  spread  her  marvellous    sea-wings,    or 

plunged  her  swan-breast  through  the  spray — 
For  North  points  the  needle! 

Ye  look  not  alone  for  the  sign  of  the  lode-star;  the  lode- 
stone  too  lendeth  cheer; 

Yet  one  in  the  heavens  is  established  forever,  and  one  is 
compelled  through  the  sphere. 

What !  and  ye  chide  not  the  fluttering  magnet  that  seemeth 
to  fly  its  troth, 

Yet  even  now  is  again  recording  its  fealty's  silent  oath — 
As  North  points  the  needle! 

Praise  ye  bestow  that,  though  mobile  and  frail  as  tremu 
lous  spheret  of  dew, 

It  obeys  an  imperial  law  that  ye  know  not  (yet  know 
that  it  guideth  most  true)  ; 

So,  are  ye  content  with  its  fugitive  guidance — ye,  but  the 
winds'  and  waves'  sport! — 

So,  are  ye  content  to  sail  by  your  compass,  and  come  in 
fair  hour  to  your  port; 

For  North  points  the  needle! 


86 


And  now,  will  ye  censure,  because,   of  compulsion,   the 

spirit  that  rules  in  this  breast, 
To  show  what  a  poet  must  show,   was  attempered,   and 

touched  with  a  cureless  unrest, 
Swift  to  be  moved  with  all  human  mutation,   to  traverse 

Passion's  whole  range? 
Mood  succeeds  mood,  and  humor  fleets  humor,  yet  never 

heart's  drift  can  they  change, 

For  North  points  the  needle! 

Inconstant  I  were  to  that  Sovereign  Bidding   (why    or 

whence  given  unknown) , 
Failed  I  to  tent  the  entire  round  of  motive  ere  sinking  back 

to  my  own: 
The  error  be  yours,  if  ye  think  my  faith  erring  or  deem 

my  allegiance  I  fly; 
I  follow  my  law  and  fulfil  it  ail  duly — and  look !   when 

your  doubt  runneth  high — 

North  points  the  needle! 


VOYAGERS 

Cras  ingens  iterabimus  tequor 

Comrades,  over  the  deep  without  name, — 
Over  the  deep,  unwitting  we  came! 
Never  one  knew  from  whence  he  sailed, 
And  the  hither  shore  from  his  sight  was  veiled 

With  the  surging  vapors  of  sleep; 

And  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 

Again  we  shall  sail  the  great  deep. 

Sweet  is  the  shore  where  we  tarry  a  day. 
Let  us  live  as  brave  men  what  time  we  shall  stay, 
The  wreath  of  the  poplar  thereof  be  the  sign; 
And  weave  in  the  myrtle,  all  ye  who  resign 

Your  hearts  to  some  fond  one  to  keep ! 

But  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 

Again  we  shall  sail  the  great  deep. 

Fair  was  the  morn,  and  the  noon,  fleeting  fast; 

But  the  sky  of  the  undertime  grew  overcast! 

As  the  leaf  of  the  poplar,  that  shakes  in  the  wind, 

So  grief,  for  a  time,  may  oppress  the  firm  mind, 
Nor  the  hero  be  shamed,  though  he  weep; — 
But  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 
Again  we  shall  sail  the  great  deep. 

Ye  have  wrought  as  ye  wrought,  and  the  day  is  far  spent, 
Well  have  ye  borne  whatever  fate  sent: 
Now,  wine  for  the  even,  and,  lying  at  ease, 
The  glimpse  of  red  sails  on  Hesperian  seas; 

Then  the  shadows  of  night, — then  a  sleep, — • 

88 


And  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 
Again  we  are  on  the  great  deep. 

Oh,  comrades,  there  be  who  would  tarry  to  store 
The  treasure  they  find  on  this  wave-beaten  shore; 
There  be  who  would  trace,  with  a  feverish  hand, 
Some  name  on  the  scroll  of  the  silvery  sand: 
But  the  tides,  all  oblivious,  sweep, — 
And  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 
Again  we  are  on  the  great  deep. 

To-morrow — and  after-to-morrow?  Who  knows 
What  isle  or  what  mainland  the  sea  shall  disclose, 
Or  whether,  since  wanderers,  we  ever  have  been, 
The  signal  and  watch-tower  of  home  we  shall  win, 

When,  at  last,  on  the  strand  we  shall  leap? 

But  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 

Again  we  are  on  the  great  deep. 


PALINGENESIS 

I  dwelt  with  the  God,  ere  He  fashioned  the  worlds  with 

their  heart  of  fire, 
Ere  the  vales  sank  down  at  His  voice  or  He  spake  to  the 

mountains,  "Aspire!" 
Or  ever  the  sea  to  dark  heaven  made  moan  in  its  hunger 

for  light, 
Or  the  four  winds  were  born  of  the  morning  and  missioned 

on  various  flight. 

In  a  fold  of  His  garment  I  slept,  without  motion,  or  knowl 
edge,  or  skill, 

While  age  upon  age  the  thought  of  creation  took  shape  at 
His  will; 

Sleeping  I  lay  by  the  right  hand  that  framed  it — this 
wonderful  earth — 

Nor  heard  I  the  stars  of  the  morning,  chanting  its  anthem 
of  birth. 

Part  had  I  not  in  the  scheme  till  He  sent  me  to  work  on 

the  reef. 
Nude,  in  the  seafoam,  to  clothe  it  with  coralline  blossom 

and  leaf. 
Patient  I  wrought — as  a  weaver  that  blindly  plyeth  the 

loom, 
Nor  knew  that  the  God  dwelt  with  me,  there  as  I  wrought 

in  the  gloom. 

Strength  had  I  not  till  chiefdom  supreme  of  the  waters  he 

gave; 
Joyous  I  went — tumultuous;  the  billows  before  me  I  drave — . 


90 


Myself  as  a  surge  of  the  sea  when  impelled  by  the  driving. 

storm; 
Nor  knew  that  the  God  dwelt  with  me,  there  in  leviathan's 

form. 

Lightness  I  had  not  till,   decked  with  light  plumes,  he 

endued  me  with  speed — 

Buoyant  the  hollow  quill  as  the  hollow  stem  of  the  reed! 
And  I  gathered  my  food  from  the  ooze,   and  builded  my 

home,  at  his  word; 
Nor  knew  that  God  dwelt  with  me  clothed  in  the  garb  of 

a  bird. 

I  trod  not  the  earth  till  on  plains  unmeasured  He  sent  me 

to  rove, 
To  taste  of  the  sweetness  of  grass  and   the  leaves  of  the 

summer  grove. 
For  shelter  He  hollowed  the  cave;  fresh  springs  in  the  rock 

He  unsealed; 
But  I  knew  not  the  God  dwelt  with  me  that  ranged  as  a 

beast  of  the  field. 
Foresight  I  had  not,  nor  memory,  nor  vision  that    sweeps 

in  the  skies, 
Till  he  made  me  man,  and  bade  me  uplift  my  marvelling 

eyes! 
My  hands  I    uplifted — my  cries  grew  a    prayer — on    the 

green  turf  I  knelt. 
And  knew  that  the  God  had  dwelt  with  me  wherever  of 

old  I  had  dwelt! 


Wild  is  the  life  of  the  wave,  and  free  is  the  life  of  the 
air, 

And  sweet  is  the  life  of  the  measureless  pastures,  unbur 
dened  of  care; 

They  have  all  been  mine,  I  upgather  them  all  in  the  be 
ing  of  man, 

Who  knoweth,  at  last,  that  the  God  hath  dwelt  with  him 
since  all  life  began! 

My  heritage  draw  I  from  these — I  love  tho  I  leave  them 

behind; 
But  shall  I  not  speak  for  the  dumb,  and  lift  up  my  sight 

for  the  blind? 
I  am  kin  to  the  least  that  inhabits  the  air,  the  waters,   the 

clod; 
They  wist  not  what  bond  is  between  us,  they  know  not 

the  Indwelling  God! 
For  under  my  hands  alone   the   charactered    Past  hath  he 

laid, 
One  moment  to  scan  ere  it  fall  like  a  scroll  into  ashes  and 

fade! 
Enough  have  I  read  to  know  and  declare — my  ways  he 

will  keep, 
If  onward  I  go,  or  again  in  a  fold  of  his  garment  I  sleep! 


THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  DAY 

I  rode  my  dearest  champion  to  the  ground, 
I  made  the  smiling  traitor  mine  ally, 

I  gave  my  faithful  love  a  lethal  wound, 
Truth  read  I  in  a  wanton-glancing  eye. 

I  made  a  darkness  of  the  noontide  sun, 
I  took  the  swamp-fire  for  a  guiding  light: 

My  little  day  of  days  is  almost  done — 
Mine  errors  rush  into  the  rushing  night. 


SHIELD  ME,  DARK  NURSE 

Shield  me,  dark  nurse, — outworn,  defeated,  and  undone! 
Shield  me  from  memories  sweet  or  bitter  'neath  the  sun; 
From  glance  of  scorn,  for  love's   long  gaze,    from   pity's 

tear, 
Shield  me  alike  from  blame,  from  praise,  from  hope,  from 

fear! 
Shield    me,    dark   nurse,    with    charm    and  woven  pace 

surround, 
Shield  me  from  sight,  from   sound — from   dream  of  sight 

or  sound! 


93 


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